


Only Fools Rush In

by withthethieves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (I'll add more smut tags as the story progresses), Actor Harry, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Another Man AU, Best Friends, Bickering, Biting, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Cuddling, Famous Harry, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, London, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Non-Famous Louis, Photographer Louis, Pillow Talk, Pining, Sloppy handjobs, Smut, bed sharing, godddd i hate writing smut tags lmao, i think that's it for now!!! i'll keep adding more, is what i’m calling this, kind of, like... a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthethieves/pseuds/withthethieves
Summary: AU in which Louis Tomlinson is definitely not a fashion photographer, but he’s hired to work on a special issue of Another Man Magazine anyway. Harry Styles, on the other hand, is a model-turned-actor, who is the cover boy for said issue, and when they’re introduced on the first day of the shoot, it’s not exactly the first time they’ve met. Despite this, a convenient, casual, friends with benefits agreement ensues, which is all fine… until it isn’t.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here's another fic for you lovely people, this is going to be going up chapter by chapter as opposed to all at once like last time, partly because I'm impatient, and partly because I'm finding this one much harder to write so I'm hoping I get more motivation this way. I’m also really excited about this one, so I wanted to share it as soon as possible!
> 
> I'm not sure how often my updates will be, but I'll try to keep them fairly regular. 
> 
> The idea for this fic came from a number of anonymous prompts, from whom I'm still not sure, so if my Another Man AU anon would like to make themselves known that would be fab! Thank you for giving me such a good idea (and letting me change a lot of it.) 
> 
> That's about it for now, I hope you enjoy x
> 
> p.s. massive thank you to whoever runs [hsfashionarchive](http://hsfashionarchive.tumblr.com/tagged/another-man), literally every single another man outfit has been catalogued and that has been a huge help for this fic!

“I’m moving.”

Dread pools in the pit of Louis’ stomach at the words he hears, a tangible thing that curls up and wraps around his chest like a vice, making it harder and harder to breathe. For a moment, Louis can’t quite comprehend what he’s being told, and it takes him longer than usual for the sentiment to settle.

 _Moving?_ Harry can’t move, can’t just leave Louis, he… They’d never even entertained that idea, never thought it were a possibility. Louis’d never thought there be a time when Harry was further from him than a lazy walk through a field, mere minutes away, so the question at the forefront of his mind is why?

_Why, why, why?_

Louis tries to wrap his mind around it, head already throbbing with a migraine, tries to convince himself to calm down, that he’s fine, and this is okay, while every single thing his body is doing in response begs to differ.

“You’re what?” he manages to choke out, throat dry and thick, in complete and utter confusion at the moment before him, at the sight in front of him, at how the last minute has just transpired.

Harry stands there, in his curly haired, red-cheeked, innocent-faced glory, all gangly limbs and milky skin; utterly stunning.

Always stunning.

He’s usually one of Louis’ favourite things to see in his bedroom, if not his favourite, but today… Today he's not.

Where there should be brightness in Harry’s eyes, there’s an unwelcome wetness to them, a sight which never fails to make Louis’ heart constrict. The crimson tint is not from a sweet blush kissing his cheeks, born from pleasure as it usually is, but instead there are harsh red splotches that only tell Louis the tears in Harry’s eyes are not the first of today. The flicker of his fingers resting close to his thigh is not a tick out of poorly-contained childlike excitement, the same kind that always makes Louis roll his eyes with endearment, instead it’s a gesture of anxiety, of nerves; Louis’ never seen Harry like this.

“We’re moving, Blue. Leaving. I have– we have to go. Mum just told me today, just now. I had no… I didn’t know any of it was…” Harry’s voice is thick and tinny, words leaving his mouth uneven and stilted, and he trails off as his breaths get more ragged, tiny tears trailing unwanted tracks down the edges of his face. The use of the familiar nickname, combined with the painful sight of the younger boy’s face crumpling in front of him, makes Louis’ breath hitch.

He’s confused, he doesn’t understand what Harry’s talking about, but that’s the least of his worries right now, when Harry’s stood there, looking at Louis with a helpless plea in his gaze, features taught, plush, pink lips trembling, bitten between his teeth like he’s trying to force himself not to cry. Louis finds himself plagued with the same inner conflict. Stomach twisting, he takes a step forward, lifting his arm ever so slightly to tangle his fingers with Harry’s own, which welcome him, warm, soft, skin on skin; an anchor.

“Oh, don’t cry, love,” Louis whispers, in their closer proximity, as he squeezes gently, tone soft and measured. “Just tell us what’s going on, yeah?” he implores, trying to retain any semblance of calm he may have, despite the fact that the more he thinks about what Harry’s told him the more panicked he feels.

“I– We’re–” Harry stammers, hiccupping on his words as his resolve breaks, and his eyes squeeze shut against the flood of tears, chest heaving as his body wracks with muffled sobs. In that moment, Louis feels something within himself break, not knowing anything other than the inviting warmth of Harry’s arms, needing to hold him, needing to make it better any way he can. He gathers the boy to his chest, and immediately feels Harry’s tight, desperate grip come around his small waist, latching onto him like a little limpet, in the way that Louis always teases him about, but secretly adores.

“Shh, it’s alright, you’re alright,” Louis soothes, directed at himself as much as it is Harry. It’s probably not alright, and Louis is still utterly puzzled and anxious, wants to ask a plethora of questions, but he waits. Makes himself wait.

He rubs small circles into the boy’s heaving back, nudges his nose into the soft, fragrant skin between Harry’s neck and shoulder, pursing his lips slightly to place a small, barely-there kiss upon the pulse point, a ritual that always seems to calm Harry down. The delicious combination of a sweet and clean scent hits Louis, like it always does, and he inhales it, takes it in, lets his mind go hazy with Harry for just a moment, selfishly.

They stay like that for a little while, in the middle of Louis’ bedroom, nestled in each other’s embrace, both of them a silhouette against the setting sun beating down on them through the large window, as Louis’ senses flood with the warm familiarity of his best friend. The old house creaks around them, and it’s the only sound in the room other than Harry sniffling where his head is pressed against the collar of Louis’ top, while they just stand there, holding each other.

Harry’s breaths even out after a little while, deep and calm, his body relaxing under Louis’ light touch, and at that the tension in Louis’ shoulders subsides, too. He feels slightly dizzy with all of this, and it’s another minute before Louis lifts his head up, slowly, and loosens his arms around Harry’s back so he can face him properly, and maybe get a full understanding of what this is all about.

Harry’s arms stay wrapped firmly around Louis, so they’re close enough for Louis to see the tiny teardrops that are still caught in his eyelashes, and far enough away for him to be able to reach his hand up from where it’s resting and brush them off, gently, with the tip of his thumb. Both of Louis’ hands come to cradle Harry’s jaw, and Harry’s eyelids flutter shut at the touch. Louis’ fingertips stroke the soft, wet skin beneath his eyes, hoping that by removing any trace of the tears, he can remove some of the boy’s pain, too.

“Now, do you want to tell me what you’re on about, H?” Louis manages to ask, softly, with a hint of hope sneaking into his voice that comes from the small chance that maybe he’d got it all wrong, that Harry isn’t moving away from him, that he’d misunderstood.

Harry’s eyes flit open slowly, gorgeous green pools swimming with sadness, and they gaze up at Louis heavily. Harry sucks his bitten lip between his teeth again, something he does when he’s nervous, Louis knows. God, does he know. Louis’ eyes shift to follow the movement, helplessly, and he almost reaches across to pull it out, imagines swiping his thumb over the slick, pink plushness and–

_No, stop it. Too much. Far too much._

Louis schools himself, settles for just shifting his eyes back up instead, and gives Harry a pleading look that begs an answer to his earlier question. He’d really like Harry to explain what’s going on, why this has happened all of a sudden, why he’s turned up at Louis’ house unexpectedly, all upset and in a frenzy like this. He really just wants Harry to tell him it’s not what he thinks.

Finally, Harry takes a breath, which comes out ever so slightly shaky on the exhale. Louis slides his hands from Harry’s cherubic cheeks, ghosting over his neck, to his small shoulders, squeezing gently, encouraging him to keep going.

“It’s mum, she– she told me that we’re moving, leaving, whatever. To London,” Harry gets out, voice still thick with emotion, and _God,_ he’s never seemed as _young_ to Louis than in this moment, their two-year age gap never seemed so immensely deep. Louis’ own throat tightens at the words; his fears have been confirmed.

“I– But… But why?” It’s all Louis can say in response, the only question he can think of that he so desperately needs the answer to, needs to know why on earth his best friend is moving miles and miles away from here, away from _him._

“It’s the divorce, apparently, I don’t–” Harry uttered, bitterly, his hands tightening on Louis’ waist ever so slightly as he takes a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, a wave of what seems to be anger coming over him all of a sudden. “No one told me a thing, Louis. They’ve been planning it for months, known we were gonna move for ages. They said it was to protect me, but I’m not a child, I didn’t…” his words lose their edge, then, voice transforming into something like a whimper, “I knew it was bad, between mum and dad, but I didn’t think it was bad enough for us to have to move across the bloody country.” Harry shakes his head at his own confession, like he’s almost in disbelief himself.

Louis on the other hand feels completely blindsided; he hadn’t known it had been this bad, either. But then, of course he hadn’t. Even if his mum had known, if Harry’s mum had spoken to her about it, which she probably had, Louis’ mum would never tell him. She’d know he’d just go and tell Harry about it. Of course he would. They didn’t keep secrets from each other, never had.

“Oh… Harry, this is… I can’t…” Louis starts, focusing on the boy’s flushed face in front of him, and trailing off, pretty much speechless at the onslaught of information.

Harry just stares back in response, eyes shining with new tears again, looking as lost as Louis feels, as though he’s looking to the older boy for an answer, a way to fix this. He’s always done that, and Louis’ always tried to find a solution to all of Harry’s problems, but this time… This time he doesn’t think he has one.

“When?” is all Louis can say, needing to know how much time he has left with his best friend before he’s carted what feels like a world away.

London might only be a few hours on the train, but it may as well be a different planet entirely. Louis can only imagine what the busy, bustling city is compared to his and Harry’s modest upbringing, in a tiny village in the North of England. All their life they’ve only known this small community of people, living in a place surrounded by rolling hills and countryside. Harry’s next door neighbours are a bloody herd of cows, for Christ’s sake, Louis can hardly imagine this boy, this country boy, who loves flowers and fields, moving all the way to London, of all places.

And away from Louis. He can hardly imagine that either, doesn’t want to.

“A few days, I think,” Harry mutters, almost guiltily, as if any of this is his doing, and Louis’ breath gets caught in his throat, because a few _days?_ That’s… That’s hardly any time left with Harry at all, hardly any time left with the boy that he– “I just, I woke up this morning and mum had already started packing, and no one had _fucking_ told me, I still can’t believe–” Harry cuts himself off with a frustrated grunt, eyes flashing with a sudden rage.

“Hey, hey, relax, H,” Louis cuts in, voice hopefully soothing, and he squeezes his shoulders comfortingly once again. “Just take a deep breath for me, yeah?” Louis pleads, torn between his own spiralling panic and wanting to avoid Harry’s fit reaching levels of anger that at times even scares Louis.

Harry rarely swears, is the thing, has been that way ever since they were kids, not unless he’s extremely angry or upset, so Louis knows how much this must be affecting him. Although, Louis hardly needed that as evidence for Harry being as miserable as he is about this; he knew the second Harry walked in a little bit ago that something was wrong. That’s what happens when you’ve known someone for years as intimately as Louis knows Harry, you become attuned to every part of them, can spot straight away when something’s not right. Although, the intense scrutiny Louis has for Harry’s body language at all times, and whatever it might mean, may have something to do with the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with him. That’s probably quite a large factor, actually, now that Louis thinks about it.

“We’ll still stay in touch, though, won’t we?” Louis says, all thoughts of hidden feelings aside, trying to keep the pleading edge out of his tone, and failing miserably. It’s not that he’s just simply worried about this, no, rather he’s fucking petrified that this much distance between them, after spending their lives in each other’s pockets, will only hinder their friendship. He hopes he’s wrong. “Distance won’t be that bad, just wait. It’ll be okay, Harry, I promise, yeah?” he says instead, trying to put on a brave face for Harry, like he always does, trying to keep the utter devastation out of his voice as the reality of this all continues to sink in.

Harry sighs, then steps back and releases Louis from his hold to run his fingers through his hair; he’s frustrated, and Louis misses his touch more than he should. Harry blinks away the last of his tears and wipes roughly at his eyes with the back of his other hand, and then directs his gaze back up to Louis, all furrowed brows and a hardened stare.

“Of course we will, obviously, but– This is just… It’s crap, Lou. I’m just. I’m not like you, you’re about to go to uni anyway, I’m gonna have to move schools, gonna have to do my last two years with a load of people I don’t know, in a massive, scary city and I– I don’t _want_ to leave,” Harry sniffs, voice a fragile thing, fists curled at his sides, “I want to stay _here,_ with _you._ ”

“Oh, Harry…” Louis starts, small and tender, unsure of how to continue. Louis wishes it were possible, wishes he could beg Harry to stay with him, but he’s smart enough to realise Harry’s need to stay here is out of the familiarity of the place, nothing deeper.

Louis’ need for Harry to stay is something different, something much more selfish; he just wants to keep the boy for himself. He can’t, though, Louis knows this. He knows he can’t ask Harry to stay, either, no matter how much he wants to, and no matter how impossible it would be anyway.

“Look, H… I think, if your parents made this decision, it’s obviously for the best, yeah?” Louis offers instead, affecting a somewhat brighter tone, using every ounce of self-control to not curse the people he calls his second family for making this decision.

“What?” Harry snaps, eyes fierce and tone hard, and Louis feels a empty space in front of him where Harry was a moment ago. “No, Lou, it’s not for the bloody best, it’s shit, is what it is, and I thought you, of all people, would understand that.” Harry’s voice is dripping with offense, all traces of softness and sadness gone, in its’ place pure rage and emotion. Louis immediately regrets his words, but it’s too late now.

Harry folds his arms, then, directing his gaze to the floor where he leans against the far wall, scuffing his shoe on the old rug beneath it. He huffs like a child, and it’s fitting, actually, because he is one, when Louis thinks about it, barely sixteen. Still so young. Still so much to experience, so perhaps… Perhaps moving to a big city might be good for him.

(Perhaps Louis is trying to convince himself of this, too).

Louis hates this, though, hates when there’s anything other than warmth between them, it’s unsettling. He feels his stomach coil with nerves, with anxiety, and his face grimace, at the unfamiliar dynamic. They rarely have arguments, and he’s not going to let one happen right before… right before Harry leaves. Moves away. Disappears from his immediate life in a way Louis never once thought would happen, not like this, not so quickly, with no warning.

He treads across the room, carefully, and when he touches Harry gently on the shoulder the boy’s body is tense, and Louis hates it, hates that he’s been the cause of it. Harry doesn’t look at him.

“Hey,” Louis lowers his tone, almost a whisper, voice as soft and gentle as he can manage, the one he’s only ever used on Harry, “Please, H, let’s not fight, yeah? Not when–”

The younger boy’s arms wrap around him again, then, knocking the words out of Louis, warm hands clutching at the material on his back, desperately, soft curls tickling the crook of his neck where Harry’s buried his head, and Louis almost wants to cry at the overwhelming potency of it all. God, Harry always does this, always manages to break Louis’ heart in the most profound and peculiar of ways. He lets him, though. Always lets him.

“I’m just,” comes a tiny, muffled voice, warm breath hitting the delicate skin of Louis’ neck as he speaks, eliciting a slew of shivers from Louis that finally prompt him to slowly move his hands to wrap around Harry’s waist, holding him, kidding himself just for a moment that maybe if he holds tight enough he can keep him here, in his room, in his arms forever.

“You’re what, love?” Louis whispers, against the crown of Harry’s head where it fits perfectly beneath his chin, surprised he’s managed to find his voice in amongst the intensity of it all, of this fragile moment.

Harry leans back then, only a bit, glowing green eyes locking with Louis’ widened ones, and he’s giving Louis that look that Louis’ always been a slave to, never been able to tear his gaze away from. It’s so earnest, so full of determination but at the same time pure innocence, finished off with a flicker of hope that Louis can never find the strength within himself to stifle. It’s is one of the many things Louis loves about Harry, this look he gets, when he feels so strongly about something.

Harry takes another ragged breath, hands gripping even tighter onto Louis, his next words uneven and pained, “I’m just gonna miss you, so _much,_ Blue. So much. You’ve… you’ve no idea how much.”

Louis’ sharp intake of breath at Harry’s words is a shock to them both, the pair of bodies going stiff at the confession. And it’s not an odd thing to say, is the thing, not at all, because of course Harry will miss him, they’re practically attached at the hip, Louis doesn’t know what he’s going to do without him. It’s just, somewhere in the tenderness of Harry’s tone, and the fact that it’s just them, alone, in this tiny room, this tiny moment, Louis hears something other than what’s said, something weighted, and heavy, something that could possibly mean something else.

“Harry…” Louis starts, voice a rough whisper, not quite knowing where he’s going with it, mind a pile of mush because Harry’s eyes have stars in them and he keeps getting distracted trying to find his favourite one. “I’ll– you know I’ll miss you more than anything. Absolutely anything.”

He loosens his arms around Harry, just a bit, giving the boy the opportunity to step out of his hold if he’d like to. He doesn’t immediately, and just this makes Louis go a bit dizzy. He can’t speak, can’t think, not about anything, especially not about what on earth this all means for them, now.

They stare at each other a moment, and Louis just looks at the small, curled into himself boy before him, takes him in.

He misses him already.

Harry’s hands slowly come down to rest on Louis’ shoulders, a light touch that still burns Louis, before stepping out of his space entirely. His mouth is slightly open, emerald eyes wide and beautiful, cheeks flushed a gorgeous rose; a far cry from how he’d looked when he first walked into Louis’ room.

Slowly, but surely, a small, sad smile seeps its’ way onto Harry’s face, and it reminds Louis of something like chocolate melting; sweet and slow and addictive.

“I, um, told mum I’d be back. Soon. To help pack, and stuff,” Harry murmurs, as he gazes at Louis with those dangerous eyes, making him soften even more in an instant.

“Yeah, sure, no problem, H,” Louis’ voice is airy and quiet, and he feels in a daze, can’t quite wrap his head around anything. But he feels his eyes start to sting once he remembers what Harry came here for, what led to this, what prompted it.

Harry shifts to the door, reluctantly, it looks like, sleeve-covered hand resting on the handle to let himself out, “See you tomorrow, though?” he asks, as if Louis would want to do anything other than spend the last few days he has here with Harry all to himself.

“Of course you will. You know where to find me,” Louis laughs, then, bringing up an old running joke that arose from Harry trying to find Louis’ house one day, when they were younger, and getting lost on the way even though they’re practically neighbours.

 _Were_ practically neighbours, Louis corrects himself. Suddenly a once-fond memory is now a prickling pain in Louis’ chest more than anything else.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs back, softly, not noticing Louis’ abrupt change in mood, “I’ll come find you, Blue. Promise.”

With that, and a small, hesitant wave from the both of them, Harry slopes out of the room, taking all the warmth and energy and bittersweetness with him. The reality of the situation that they’re in, that _he’s_ in, hits Louis like a ton of bricks, then, the panic from earlier showing its fearful face once again.

Louis makes sure he’s certain he’s heard the front door shut, signally Harry’s departure, before he finally, and completely, gives in to the creeping sadness that he’d been feeling ever since his favourite person in the entire world had shown up, and told him he was leaving. Leaving him.

His hot tears fall silently, trailing tracks down his face that he makes no attempt to wipe away, because there’s no point.

Louis just cries, and cries, and cries.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos if you enjoyed this are very appreciated! (And may make updates arrive quicker...) Also, there's a post [here](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com/post/168266044056/only-fools-rush-in-by-dreamsmp3-withthethieves) on my blog for you to reblog if you wish, which would be super cool of you.
> 
> There's also a tag for this fic like there was for the last one, which you can find [here](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com/tagged/another+man+au).
> 
> I'm on tumblr as [dreamsmp3](https://dreamsmp3.tumblr.com), come say hi!
> 
> x


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be travelling tomorrow so I'm posting this a week and a day early, as I probably won't be able to post this time next week, or anytime next week at all actually. But from here the updates will be every two weeks. Hope that makes sense!
> 
> This is quite a long one, but the last one wasn't very long so I thought it made sense, also because it's the first chapter. After this I don't think chapters will be more than 10k.
> 
> Big thank you to Taya, Mia, and my fic oracle Violet for this chapter... you guys all continue to be such a massive help x

_Five years later_

Harry stares intently down the shiny lens of the camera, eyes hooded and lips slightly parted, in the way that he knows looks good. There’s music blaring out from speakers behind him, some old pop song, perhaps, flooding the studio with a steady, quick beat. The bass is thumping so hard he can feel the vibrations from where he stands, and so loud that he can hardly hear the instructions being called out to him from across the room.

“Yeah, a little to the left, H! And pop that shoulder a bit more, that’s it! Come on, we gotta get through this fast,” the photographer, Archie, shouts. At least, that’s what Harry thinks he hears, and so he attempts to follow the orders given, changing his stance and twisting his torso into an array of poses that he’s perfected over the years.

The shoot’s weighing on him now; he’s been standing in the same place for at least four hours, bending his almost-bare body uncomfortably in the freezing cold room.

God, this reminds him of why he prioritised acting over modelling. With barely any breaks, and hardly any time to fully wake up this morning before being thrust unceremoniously in front of the camera, it’s tough. He knows it’s a massive job, though, and it’s his responsibility as the face of the campaign to make the product as appealing as possible, giving it his best effort all the way through, so that’s just what he does.

Harry catches the last few clicks of the camera as the photographer rushes up to him, taking a couple of close-up shots, and then, finally, they’re done.

“Alright, that’s it, man, now go put some clothes on for Christ’s sakes, you’re blinding me,” Archie walks across to Harry, as he jokes familiarly over the music; it’s what he always used to say to end their shoots when they were working together more regularly.

Harry laughs, like he always does, even though the old comment’s comedic value has long since expired. It’s all about keeping good relationships in the industry, though, Harry knows this, and if it means laughing at a prestigious photographer’s shitty joke every time then so be it.

“Thanks Archie, lovely seeing you as always,” Harry replies, with a slight edge of playful sarcasm, voice still competing with the beat blaring overhead, while subtly trying to eye up the corner of the room where he knows the exit is. He’s got a costume fitting in about ten minutes, if the shoot has finished on time, less if it hasn’t, and with London traffic he knows he’s cutting it pretty fine already.

Harry shakes the photographer’s hand, says thank you to the rest of the crew-members that he can see still milling about the studio, and takes off in a speed walk out the door and down the winding corridor where he knows the room he’s been given is.

The dressing room is freezing. It’s the first thing Harry registers, even though he expected it. There’s no heating on despite the fact that it’s nearing Winter in the notoriously cold city he calls home. His arms are covered in goosebumps as soon as he barrels inside, ready to finally put some clothes on after wearing nothing but underwear in the large, airy, chilly studio all morning.

The room is practically a glorified broom closet, really, with just a chair and a mirror and a small rack standing near the door with his own clothes hanging up, which some considerate assistant had probably done for him. He must remember to send a note to thank them.

Harry knows he shouldn’t be complaining, though; at least he was actually given a dressing room this time, for this particular shoot. For every other shoot he’s done (which, admittedly, is a fair amount, in his short but intense modelling-turned-acting career) he’s had to strip in front of everyone in the crew, fully naked to change wardrobe - something to do with time-saving, apparently - and Harry was always just sort of expected to get on with it. As much as Harry likes getting naked, it’s nice to have somewhere to do it in private every once in awhile.

There’s a rapt knock at the door then, just as Harry’s finishing zipping up his ridiculously too-tight jeans, and he briefly wonders whether it’s time to treat himself to another shopping trip soon. (Yes, that’s a definite yes.)

He quickly chucks a jumper on over his bare chest, something cosy and knitted that he’d grabbed blindly from his wardrobe after his unfairly early wake up call at 5am. Harry lets out a sigh of contentment, because this is _much_ better, he thinks, far warmer and less exposed than he’d felt all morning.

“Yeah?” he answers, voice urgent, as he shoves his arms through his coat, something suede and smart and expensive that a forgotten brand name had sent him from their upcoming line, along with a note including a not-so-subtle hint to perhaps wear it out in public.

When he first got introduced to the world of endorsements a couple years ago, about halfway through his career, after the combination of his modelling and new acting career started getting him recognised (and photographed) more and more, Harry hated that sort of thing, felt like he was just an object being used to promote stuff. After a while, though, he just came to accept the ‘gifts’, as dubbed by his ever-positive and ambitious manager, that he’s given.

He soon realised that the industry, and everything associated with it, is all just a game that he had to eventually learn how to play if he wanted to stay on top of it all.

Someone opens the door harshly, like they’re being rushed. Harry looks up, after shoving his hat  (not a gift, but his own purchase, of which he is very fond and proud of) on top of the unruly mess that is his hair, still greasy from stuff that they’d put in it for the shoot. It’s a man Harry recognises from this morning, perhaps the assistant that had shown him to him dressing room earlier on, what feels like hours ago, now.

“Jack, right? What’s up?” Harry asks, patting his pockets briskly to check whether he’s got all his stuff with him ready to go.

A slightly shocked smile breaks the younger man’s face; perhaps he didn’t expect Harry to remember his name. Harry knows what that’s like, from his early days in his career, being called everything from Henry to Hugo but never actually _Harry,_ so it’s something he always tries to do.

“Uh, your car’s here,” he says, slightly out of breath, gesturing down the hallway towards the direction Harry knows leads out onto a busy Soho street. “Think the driver’s in a bit of a hurry, said to remind you about something, a costume fitting?”

Harry eyes shoot up to the only object adorning the bare walls of the room - an oddly shaped clock, something modern, he supposes - and he realises with a hushed curse that he’s really pushing it now.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks man, I should really be going,” Harry responds, quickly glancing around to double-check he hasn’t left anything. It’s a bit pointless, really, considering there’s not much space to leave any of his possessions in the tiny room, but it’s out of habit more than anything.

Jack opens the door for him and leads him out. Harry distractedly says his goodbyes to other members of the crew that he comes across on his way, down the fluorescently-lit corridor, as he wonders how pissed off his manager will be if he ends up missing this fitting.

 _You won’t hear the end of it for days,_ Harry tells himself. He picks up his speed.

They arrive at a set of slippery steps leading up to the front door of the studio, the tell-tale sign that it’s probably raining outside, and Harry follows Jack up and out onto the street. He gives the receptionist a wave goodbye, too, as Jack opens the door for him again. Nice bloke, he is.

It’s chilly outside, of course, and the damp and dirty smell of the city tickles Harry’s nostrils. It’s also spitting slightly, as he suspected, but Harry doesn’t really mind, considering he’s about to get into a car anyway.

Jack gestures to something behind Harry as they stand on the busy street, noises that had been dulled in the underground studio suddenly ringing in Harry’s ears, car horns screeching and rain splattering against the pavement, gruff shouts from angry drivers and pedestrians alike. It’s strange to think about how much he hated the cacophony of sounds that are so unique to London when he first moved here, considering how familiar and dear they’ve become to him now.

His car pulls up in front of him then, Brian behind the wheel like he always is. He’s only had a personal driver for a little while, and it took a bit of getting used to, but he likes it, likes the efficiency of it. He readily gets in after thanking Jack once again, knowing that he’s probably going to be at least twenty minutes late for this 11 o’clock fitting.

“Wardour Street, is that right, Mr. Styles?” Brian asks, as he pulls away from the curb and starts expertly navigating his way through the narrow roads.

“Yeah, mate, that’s right, as quickly as possible as well, please.” Harry starts to lean back in his chair, before another thought strikes him, “And I thought I told you to just call me Harry,” he jokes; he’s never really gotten used to the title ‘Mister Styles’. It makes him feel far too grown up than he has any right to be, especially at barely twenty one years old, despite his career forcing him into adulthood quicker than most people his age.

His phone beeps, signalling a new email has just come in, and right on time, too. He doesn’t have to check to know that it’s from his manager-stroke-agent of two years, Lindy; she always just seems to _know_ Harry’s precise schedule, even when it changes drastically - it can be a bit frightening, actually.

He opens the email and makes sure to keep one eye on the window, looking for any familiar signs that tell him they’re getting closer to where he knows the fitting is going to be.

_Harry,_

_I hope the shoot went well this morning, and just a reminder that I shall see you later for lunch at Cecconi’s for 1 o’clock. The table is under Lindy._

_Lindy Parker_

_Casting Agent_

_LP Associates Ltd._

_Sent from my iPhone_

Harry inwardly groans; he’d forgotten about that meeting. It’s not that he doesn’t love Lindy, he does, of course he does, she’s the one who’s been looking after him since he’d left drama school and has been getting him jobs ever since. It’s just, when it comes to meetings, he more often than not finds himself trying to get there as late as possible, as bad as it sounds. Always attempting to slink out of serious discussions with her as well, perfectly timed so that it can’t quite be labelled as rude.

At least this time he may have an excuse, considering the fact that he’s already late to his fitting.

Harry gazes out of the tinted window at the blurry shapes whizzing by, watches as people rush back to their workplaces in their tight skirts and boring suits as their rather early lunch breaks (he suspects) come to an end. Harry can’t imagine himself in an office job at all, really, wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t realised that acting was his passion back when he had just moved to London. It’s a good thing, then, that he moved, he’s realised. He often wonders if he ever would have found his route into acting another way, another time, if he hadn’t.

Harry remembers, now, being utterly beside himself, all those years ago. Not wanting to leave his little village, especially not wanting to leave certain people.

A certain person.

Except, as he’d realised pretty quickly, all that worrying, all that utter desperation about not wanting to leave a place and a person, turned out to be pointless, anyway. Completely pointless. So Harry’s glad he left, really, he is. Knows his life probably would have turned out much differently otherwise.

He’s knocked out of his deep reverie by the car coming to an abrupt stop, and he refocuses his eyes to find that they’re outside building where he knows the fitting is, just about fifteen minutes late, which is bad, but better than he expected, he supposes.

Time is money, after all, as Lindy would so helpfully point out.

Someone’s waiting outside to open his door, and after a quick goodbye to Brian he’s rushed inside, a place that he’s been to countless times before in this past month as the pre-production for the Nolan film has been ramping up. He gets shown into the studio, and flashes a smile to the girls for his lateness, almost tripping over himself as he speeds into the room. He gives a quick hello and a kiss on the cheek to both the costume designer for the film, Vicky, and the costume supervisor, Rosa, before stripping off his clothes for the second time that morning, all too familiar now with how this goes.

Harry stands and participates in idle small talk while they efficiently take his measurements for his wardrobe, a replica of a British soldier’s uniform from World War Two. They turn him this way and that, lifting his limbs in a blurred hurry as they go. He’s grateful for the rush, because he’s half-aware of the time and how he still has one last errand to run before has his lunch meeting.

Harry taps his fingers against his bare thigh to some made-up tune out of poorly-concealed nerves about being late. It’s a habit he’s never been quite able to get rid of.

“Right, just a picture for reference, now, and you’ll be on your way,” Vicky tells him, as he preemptively backs against the wall, knowing the order of fittings now by heart. In, undress, measurements, polaroid, out. It barely takes him a quarter of an hour at this point, he’s got it down to a fine art.

With the snap of a camera, an all-too-familiar sound to Harry by now, he thinks, he dresses again quickly, before saying his thank yous and legging it out of the building. He stops on the still-damp pavement as he gets outside, eyes squinting in the rare sunshine, as he searches for his car. He spots Brian waiting across the road, already in the driver’s seat and ready to go, and Harry’s grateful. He glances both ways before sprinting across the narrow street, and hops effortlessly into the back seat.

“Camden, now, Brian, please. Gotta go pick up a fancy dress costume from Escapade for that party I was telling you about yesterday,” Harry rushes out all in one go, and by the time he’s finished his sentence Brian has already pulled out of the space and is speeding along the road, into Central London traffic.

Harry relaxes against the soft leather seat during the drive all the way to North London, that he knows from experience will take a little while, lets himself be lulled slightly by the hum of the engine, and shuts his eyes for just a bit in this rare moment of peace and hush.

“I’ll drop you off here and then park ‘round the corner, that sound alright, Mr. Styles?” he hears Brian say after a long stretch of silence, and he looks out his window and sees the bright colours of the front of the fancy-dress store, realises they’ve already made it to Camden. Brian really is quite speedy.

“Uh, yeah, fine,” Harry says, distractedly, hand already pulling the door handle to get out, foot hitting the pavement, “And it’s just Harry, I told you!” he adds, good-naturedly, before slamming the car door shut and rushing into the shop.

The bell chimes as he strolls in through the doorway, and he glances around before spotting the till in the corner, and a young woman standing behind it. He readies himself as he realises what her age probably is, and that she might be familiar with him, just in case.

“Hi there, I’m–”

“I, um, know who you are,” she replies, voice squeaky and high, cheeks already tinged a bright pink. Harry flashes her quick smile at her words, knowing his famous dimples are on full-display, and inwardly congratulates himself on his guessing skills.

“Oh good, then you know I’m picking up a costume. You wouldn’t happen to have it stashed away somewhere top secret, would you?” he teases back, and gives her a cheeky wink, always finding it amusing to interact with people who recognise him when it’s as harmless as this.

“Uh, yes, I mean no, I, um– I think it’s just right here,” she stutters, as she moves over to a rack next to her, eyes darting between the clothes and him, evidently nervous.

Harry just keeps smiling at her, knows that’s usually how to keep them calm. She fumbles with the hangers and then fishes out Harry’s costume; a 1920s style suit complete with a Derby hat and a cane, perfect for the Great Gatsby theme of the evening.

“Thanks ever so much,” Harry tells her, giving her another smile before turning on his heel, silently thanking himself for paying in advance online so he didn’t have to faff about now, not when his lunch meeting with Lindy is so soon.

Harry walks outside, carrying the costume around the corner to where Brian told him he’d be parking. He doesn’t miss the pap on the other side of the street not so-subtly snapping pictures of him, though, and he’s not surprised, either, knew there was one meant to be coming. They are irritating, though, the paps, specifically when they don’t even try to be crafty about it, but Harry knows it’s all part of getting exposure, as Lindy loves to remind him. Especially now, with him working on so many projects at the moment, and the last film he wrapped coming out quite soon, too.

He’s grateful when he reaches the car, not wanting to ever see a camera again after this morning, and he hangs up the costume before letting Brian know he’s good to go. He taps his fingers against the car door, impatient, one of his chunky rings hitting the glass window on every beat, at risk of chipping at it if he’s not careful.

He takes a deep breath, what feels like his first one of today, and stares idly out of the window as small rain droplets start to form. He reluctantly retracts his hand, and leans back into the seat, feels the weight of the busy morning finally settle on him.

He knows, though, that it’s not over yet.

–

“So, they’ve finally found a replacement photographer for your Another Man Magazine shoot,” Lindy informs him, just before daintily lifting her fork with a single leaf on the end, up to her thin mouth, while looking at him expectantly.

She’s a small woman, with severe features, platinum-blonde-but-slightly-silver short hair, and Harry’s never seen her without red lipstick painted on. She’s quite feisty too, when it comes to business, despite her older age, which is why Harry seems to have a tiny, reluctant little soft spot for her, even though he’s never been able to stand meetings longer than an hour without feeling like he’s being lectured or given a life lesson.

He’s not surprised she’s telling him this, even though it was only a mere week ago that they were told his shoot was going to be put on hold because the other photographer had to drop out unexpectedly.

“Great. That’s great news,” Harry replies, taking another bite, already halfway through his lobster salad. He almost moans, because _God,_ the food is spectacular here. He’ll have to get Niall to tell his father, the wonderful man who owns this place, how much he loves it. “On such short notice as well?”

“Well, yes. They weren’t budging for a while, but I told them about how how vital it was to allow for your commitment to your next potential project in a few months time, and how the production company for a bloody Steven Spielberg remake weren’t just going to hold off filming to give time for you to finish some magazine shoot just because they couldn’t get their act together and find a new photographer, and fast,” Lindy replies haughtily, taking a sip of her wine. “They weren’t so unwilling after that.”

Harry chuckles. “So you threatened them, basically? It’s not even certain that I even have that next film yet!” He shakes his head with amusement. She can be brilliant, Lindy.  She’s always been excellent at getting what she wants for and from her clients, which Harry has always admired about her.

“I didn’t… threaten them, not really,” she starts, a cheeky, youthful smile on her face, skin around her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her facial expression just makes Harry laugh even more, conscious of the important looking businessmen around him and trying not to make too much of a noise. “I just reminded them that you have limited availability! Six months is an awfully long time to be shooting for a magazine, anyway, especially when you could have primary production starting straight after. If you get the role, that is. Which you will, obviously. I do wonder, though, sometimes, why you agreed to this, when you could be doing so many other projects in that time period.”

“Well, I’m doing the Nolan film in between, aren’t I?” Harry reminds her, but it’s not like she doesn’t remember. She has Harry’s schedule memorised for what feels like the next five years of his life, and it’s reassuring, if not slightly terrifying, “And I think it’ll be good, the concept seemed really cool, how I get to go back to my home-town and stuff, show where I grew up. Even you said it would be a good idea - or move, I think was your exact word - to introduce me fully into the acting world, now that I’ve been getting better roles. Getting more recognised.”

“Yes, yes, I’m always right about these things, I know,” she replies, breezily, and Harry takes a breath to reply, but at the last second holds his tongue. He decides not to remind her about the fact that he had to convince her for weeks before she agreed with him; it’s really not worth the argument that he knows he’ll somehow inevitably lose.

“So, who’s the photographer that they found, then? Anyone I’d know?” Harry asks instead, taking his last bite of his food and sitting back in his chair, content. He really, really does have to remind himself to tell Niall what a superb establishment this place is. Harry knows the industry can be a gruesome place at times, but making friends with famous restaurateurs’ son’s really does show that there are some perks.

“Mm, don’t think so,” Lindy starts, distractedly, gesturing to a nearby waiter for the bill, “He’s someone quite fresh on the fashion photography scene, I think they said.”

Harry furrows his brows in confusion; _surely_ they can’t have just plucked some random photographer from nowhere. “What does that mean? How fresh are we talking?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s done many, er, magazine or campaign shoots. Any, actually.” Lindy gives Harry a tight smile, and Harry scoffs in disbelief, rolling his eyes in slow understanding.

“Ah, so _that’s_ why it was so easy to get him. He’s not even a proper photographer! I can’t–”

“Oh, Harry, do calm down. You know I hate it when you get all up in your dramatics like this,” Lindy says, and suddenly Harry feels like he’s being told off. He glances at his watch, and, yep, it’s definitely been longer than an hour since he got here. It’s like clockwork, honestly. “Of course he’s a proper photographer, and a very good one at that. Specialises in photojournalism, specifically. Wonderful at portraits and outdoor work too, I’ve been told. They even sent me over his portfolio, it was quite impressive!”

“Well why haven’t I heard of him, then? And why have they hired him if he’s never done a magazine shoot before? Do you even know his name?” Harry huffs out his slew of questions, and he’s aware he sounds a bit petulant, but he can’t help but think of his career, knows that getting his own spread in a magazine is a massive deal, and he doesn’t really want it ruined by someone who might not be quite up to the feat.

“Harry, please, do relax. And don’t frown like that, you’ll ruin your face.” Harry hadn’t even realised he was doing it, but he finds himself having to relax his features at her words. “When have I ever given you a reason not to trust me? Plus, we really don’t have any say, the magazine chose him, after all. But, like I said, I saw his work. It was good, I promise. Your shoot is not in danger,” she chuckles as she says it, and finishes the last dregs of her chardonnay.

Harry takes a breath, and releases it slowly. She’s right, of course she’s right, he shouldn’t be so worried. “Yeah, okay, sorry. But can I have his name at least? Just so I can look him up? I’m gonna be spending the majority of the next six months with the guy, you know,” Harry says, as the waiter places the cheque on their table, gracefully sweeping their plates away as he disappears.

“I don’t remember it,” Lindy says, with a dismissive flick of her hand, as Harry hurries to retrieve his card out of his wallet while she’s distracted, “You’ll meet him soon enough, though. The shoot is the day after tomorrow, after all.”

Harry sighs, he wasn’t really expecting much else, knows that Lindy probably does in fact remember the photographer’s name, and this this is most likely a trust exercise, or her being stubborn.

“Okay, fine, you win,” he starts, as he places his card down on the table, “I’ll just wait and see, I guess.”

“Yes, you will,” Lindy replies, eyes glinting with evident glee due to her making Harry trust her judgement, no doubt. “And also, my dearest Harry, if you think you’re paying for this meal, you are sorely mistaken.”

Harry groans good naturedly; he thought he’d gotten away with it. Lindy always insists on paying whenever they have meetings, even though she’s half the reason Harry earns his money in the first place - the least he could do is spend a bit on her. It’s not like he has anyone else to spend it on, anyway. No one special. Well, apart from his family and a few friends who occasionally don’t bring their wallets out with them, usually under the illusion that just because they have a recognisable face they can get by a whole night without spending a penny. Harry hates that mindset.

He smiles at his manager, a toothy grin that he’s perfected over the years since he came to realise that it always seemed to win people over, “Lindy, come on, you pay every time! Please let me at least split it?” he asks, hand possessively placed on the bill. He’s paying.

“No, and I won’t hear another word of it. I won’t take money from a child, Harry, that’s simply against my morals. I just won’t, it’s nothing personal,” Lindy holds her hand out expectantly, lips curling ever so slightly at the edges where she’s trying to keep up this strict facade, Harry knows. He supposes their interesting dynamic and quick bickering is something akin to a mother-child relationship, even though she does frustrate him sometimes. This is always her argument, and it’s always met with Harry’s protests of _Lindy, I haven’t been a child for years, I don’t know why you still insist on calling me one,_ which are then readily greeted with Lindy’s defence of _Harry, I could easily be your mother, therefore you’re always going to be a child to me._ It’s practically a routine, at this point.

In the end, Lindy ends up paying, of course she does, manages to sneak up to the waiter during a ‘trip to the ladies’ room’, the sly fox. (And that ridiculous but sneaky trip-to-the-bathroom plan was certainly not what Harry’s idea was as well, the one that he was evidently too slow for. Not at all.)  

When they leave, Harry hails a cab for her, and insists on paying in advance for it because, one, he’s stubborn and needs to pay her back somehow, and two, he is reluctantly quite fond of her, and it’s a pleasant feeling knowing he’s doing something generous for someone that he cares about. It makes him feel good.

“Right, so I’ll see you Monday, then, yes? I’ll be there to meet you at the shoot to introduce you to everyone,” Lindy tells him, as she steps into the black cab.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then. Thanks for lunch, I’m paying next time!” Harry says, and then he shuts the door briskly before he can hear any kind of protest from her. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

He decides to walk around a bit before heading home, spend some of his rare free time between jobs wandering around his favourite part of London. He knows that as soon as Monday comes, he’ll be thrust into this next job, this shoot, with this mysterious photographer, for a good six months on and off, so he’s hoping to savour the last dregs of having no responsibilities while he can.

With that thought, Harry’s hand itches to send Lindy a quick email, to ask her to dig up the photographer’s name for him, his curiosity and controlling streak almost getting the better of him. He knows, though, that she won’t give it to him, of course she won’t. She’ll just say something annoying and cryptic like _‘just wait and see.’_ She’s stubborn like that. It’s one of the few reasons why they seem to get along in their strange way.

As he strolls down the damp pavement, (having told Brian to take a well-deserved afternoon off), legs aimlessly leading him nowhere and anywhere, and hat pulled low just in case anyone around may recognise him, he admits defeat, rather belatedly, and realises that he’ll have to do just that. Wait and see.

Although these are his last couple days of time off, which itself is a rare commodity to come by in a career like Harry’s, he still, for whatever reason - perhaps it’s the workaholic in him, or, more likely, his excitement at starting a project he’s already so passionate about - can’t help but think that Monday couldn’t come any sooner.

–

When Harry pries open his front door, which takes far more effort than he would have thought, even in his bone-tired state, he immediately slumps onto the first sofa he sees, letting his body sink into plush, velvet cushions. He feels like it’s been non-stop all day, so he can’t help but let himself take a moment to just relax, take a breath and let his mind rest, inhale the familiar, floral smell of lilies that he always has in vases around the house.

He’s used to it, though, this fast paced lifestyle, after doing nothing but work for the past few years, but it can get draining after awhile, especially at the end of a very long and very busy week.

After laying there for a moment, tired eyes unfocused directed up to the high ceiling, he hears the little pitter-patter sound of tiny feet clicking on the wooden floorboards, along with a twinkling noise of metal knocking against metal - the tell-tale sign that Pippa has just heard him come in.

He turns his head, a slow smile breaking out onto his face, and yes, there she is, gazing up at him with those gorgeous big, brown eyes that he fell in love with immediately the moment he saw her at the dog home.

“Hello, darling,” he coos, as he leans over to pick up the puppy, who just whines and wiggles in his grasp out of excitement. He laughs at the little creature, places her on his chest where she bends her head down to shower him with tiny kisses, the warmest welcome he could ask for after such a long and tiring day.

He strokes her softly for a moment, lets her calm down a bit, before she ends up falling asleep almost straight away on his tummy, all curled up into a fluffy little ball. She’s absolutely precious, and Harry adores her, adores these moments he gets to have with his little four-legged friend.

After a moment of stroking her, absent-mindedly, for a bit longer, he realises he’s been lying on his costume, which isn’t a great idea seeing as he needs it to be pristine in a matter of hours. He gets up reluctantly from his resting place, placing the now-awoken puppy gently onto the floor, and ambles his way across his large, spacious living room to the staircase leading up to his bedroom.

He stops on the way, remembering to switch a lamp off that he’d realised he must have accidentally left on all day. It’s a habit that comes more from being at home, from his mother reminding him, _always_ reminding him, to save energy, more than anything else. He supposes it made sense, them living in the rural countryside and all, to be wary about energy bills and the like, it’s nothing like living in London and being able to call someone to come in minutes if the power goes out (because Harry has no clue how on _earth_ to decipher the fuse box in his house).

That reminds Harry - it’s his mum’s birthday soon. He needs to remember to give her a ring, can’t recall the last time he even spoke to her, which is… decidedly not good, but he’s been busy, and it’s hard, too, when they live on opposite ends of the city.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Harry climbs the stairs lazily, the sounds of his footsteps echoing against the polished mahogany steps and the high, cream-coloured walls enclosing the staircase. He gets to the landing, and makes his way across to his bedroom, ignoring the urge to just collapse onto his extremely inviting king-sized bed, despite how comfortable he knows it is. Instead, he moves over to the other side of the room, to his wardrobe, where he intends to hang up his outfit for later on.

He thinks, then, as he’s finding space for the costume in his very large and very densely packed closet, about the party he’s attending that evening, hopes his friends will be there. Or at least some people he’s familiar with.

It’s being held by the production company for the last film he did, so he knows it’s going to be big and extravagant. They always are, industry parties; Harry remembers being shocked when he went to his first one a few years back, he’d never experienced anything quite like it before.

Harry chuckles to himself as he goes over the memory; the small, scared, now almost unrecognisable eighteen year old who’d just barely broken into the modelling industry, wasn’t even acting yet, getting invited to his first party and absolutely relishing in it. He had just moved to London a couple years before and had decided during his sixth-form to try out for the school play, a decision that ended up shaping the next years of his life. He remembers feeling so lost and out of place in a big, unfamiliar city, in a new school where he knew no one, that he decided doing something communal, like joining the drama club, would help him make friends and feel like he belongs somewhere. It was only a few weeks in when he realised how much he actually enjoyed acting, was rather good at it, that he decided that he might want to pursue it further.

Harry also remembers when someone approached him a few years back, while he was out shopping with his mum, and how he never imagined that they were going to scout him to be a model. Never thought someone would see something in him that he didn’t even see in himself. He remembers his first shoot, and how initially he hated it, but once he realised how expensive Drama school was, and how lucrative modelling jobs can be after receiving his first pay-check, he recognised the good opportunity that was presenting itself to him, and so ended up embracing it warmly.

Modelling also helped him, he thinks, with developing a good level of confidence in himself, and his body, too. He soon realised after his first time half naked in front of a camera, that there’s no room for bashfulness or being embarrassed, that he’d had to get over any insecurities about his body rather quickly in an industry based almost solely on what you look like. It was certainly useful once he left RADA and went into acting, and even now that he almost exclusively works on film shoots as opposed to photo shoots, with some exceptions, such as this morning, he’s still grateful for the tools his modelling career gave him.

Finally, with the outfit hung up and at least a couple of hours before Harry needs to start getting ready, he slowly slinks across the room and into his bed, running out of reasons to not take a quick nap, he thinks he must deserve it. He sets an alarm to ensure he doesn’t sleep through the entire evening (which may have happened before) and then feels his eyes drooping shut. For what feels like the first time all day, lets his mind switch off.

–

There are lots of people giving out lots of instructions, crew members, mainly, and Harry’s been to enough photo shoots in his career to have learnt how to tune it all out in favour of just sitting in the hair and makeup chair and awaiting whatever it is they need to do to him. So, that’s what his current position is, sitting topless in nothing but a pair of _wonderful_ patterned Gucci trousers, and a buckled, leather collar, (he wonders if he can keep them?), in front of a mirror with some rather offensively bright lights beaming around the edge of it, ones which make Harry try his very best not to have to squint at.

He can see the whole room from his vantage point. In his immediate eyeline is the open door behind him that leads into the studio where the first pictures for the shoot are going to be taken. There’s also the hair and makeup artist, Emily, whom he’s just been introduced to, busying herself behind him with lots of bottles of serums and moisturisers, he thinks, from what seems like a bottomless bag of supplies, of which he only recognises a few.

He can also see the extremely large rack of clothing that the wardrobe stylist for the shoot, Liam, is currently arranging. Liam had walked him through all the pieces a few moments ago, and it’s safe to say this is already one of his favourite shoots he’s done thus far, despite the fact that he hasn’t stepped foot in front of the camera yet.

He can also catch glimpses of Lindy through the open door as she walks around the studio, probably introducing herself to everyone and simultaneously letting them know that they have her to answer to if anything were to happen to him. Not that anything would, really; he hasn’t had any awful experiences in the past, or anything. Harry thinks she just likes scaring people.

Emily comes over then, and starts prepping his skin for the makeup he’ll be wearing all day; just some foundation and dark red nail varnish, he’s been told. He leans back in his chair as she slowly and meticulously massages oils and primers into his skin, and shuts his eyes, relishes in the last few minutes of relaxation before–

_“Hiya! So sorry I’m a tad late, I’m the photographer, nice to meet ya!”_

Harry’s eyes immediately shoot open at the sound of that voice, and he darts forward in his chair, gaze going directly to the door. He finds, with annoyance and an edge of panic, that someone’s pushed it so that he no longer has a view into the studio and can’t see the person who’s just spoken.

Despite that, though, his stomach has dropped, and he feels his heart rate rapidly increasing by the second. There’s something about that _voice,_ is the thing, that Northern twang, gentle but rough and entirely familiar, something from a lifetime ago, but there’s no way, no _possible_ way that it’s him.

It can’t be, surely.

The door starts opening again, and before Harry can fully process his thoughts, his eyes follow the movement in the mirror, gaze locked, literally on the edge of his seat in apprehension at what he’s about to see, at _who_ he’s about to see.

It’s Lindy who walks in first, and then a small figure behind her, and Harry thinks he’s actually going to be sick because holy shit, that’s almost definitely _him,_ but he can’t believe it, doesn’t _want_ to believe it.

“Harry, here’s someone I’d like you to meet, this is–”

“Louis?” All of the air seems to vanish from the room, and the word feels heavy as it falls from Harry’s lips, tongue curling unfamiliarly in his mouth to form a name he hasn’t said in years.

Harry’s in absolute, utter shock. Heart pounding loud enough that his ears ring, body thrumming with nervous energy and breaths shallow and inconsistent, because right there, right in the mirror, he can distinctly see none other than Louis fucking Tomlinson.

He’s standing, frozen, behind Harry’s manager, with a look of confusion and surprise that Harry can only imagine is being equally displayed on his own face.

The seconds drag by, until belatedly, Louis responds.

“Harry…” It’s all breathy and soft, and so pretty it’s unfair. He always did have the loveliest voice. Where he stands, Louis makes no effort to conceal how he studies Harry. “Your hair. It grew.”

Harry squirms under Louis’ scrutiny, not expecting it, averting his gaze to his lap and letting some loose strands fall in front of his face as protection.

He frowns, ignoring the sharp feeling in his chest, and attempts to keep his voice as level as possible. “Yeah. It tends to do that.”

Harry’s not endeared, and he’s not happy to see him, he won’t let himself be. He owes it to himself to not be, after all this time, despite what a fucking gorgeous man Louis has grown into. All sharp cheekbones and lithe body hugged by tight jeans and a gorgeously soft-looking jumper, curves in all the right places and hair, much longer hair than before, that Harry’d love to just run his fingers through.

Harry can’t help but readily rake his eyes down the other man, greedily take him all in. He’s much different but also much the same to the eighteen year old version of Louis that Harry had painfully tried many times, but ultimately failed, to forget.

Harry’s angry, is the thing. Can feel the residual rage building up inside him from all these years, all the unresolved tension and unanswered questions making themselves known, escaping from where Harry had locked them away long ago in a deep, dark part of himself, after he believed he would never have any reason to revisit them.

Harry twists round in his chair to face the other man, needing to make sure what he’s seeing is real, and not some cruel apparition in the glass in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” Harry tries not to make it sound too aggressive, but he’s not exactly successful given the expression he receives in response.

Louis’ brows furrow, and _fuck,_ why is that so bloody attractive?

“I’m the photographer? What are you… I didn’t…” Louis trails off, as he weakly lifts whatever he’d been carrying up to show Harry - an equipment bag, he soon realises, as he glances over. Harry’s eyes quickly focus back on those piercing blue ones, though, studying them, the ones he’d tried to erase from his memory countless times, but could never quite do it. Never quite let himself.

“Do you two know each other?” Harry hears, and oh, yes, there are other people here. He’d almost forgotten.

He forces himself to look over to where the sound came from, and sees Lindy staring at him with a puzzled look on her face, eyebrows drawn in together, along with Liam and Emily who are both not-so-subtly pretending to be busying themselves with their tasks, while obviously still listening in on the exchange.

“We used to–” “I don’t–” come his and Louis’ voices, at the same time, both fumbling for any words that could accurately describe what their situation is.

They cut each other off, though, or maybe both of them are stuck on what to say. Harry definitely is.

Harry can’t say anything, is the thing, because how the fuck does he explain that they were once best, best friends, attached at the hip, who ended up losing contact abruptly and _permanently_ five years ago?

How does he explain that he’s still not sure whose fault it was, but that he blames Louis for it, because he knows if he ever really thought about it, properly, that it could be his fault too, and he’d only really end up hating himself for throwing away something that was so important to him?

How does Harry explain that Louis was once his entire world, that he was once helplessly in love with the boy standing in front of him, at the tender age of sixteen? And that perhaps those feelings never fully went away, considering the way his heart is currently constricting at just the sight of his familiar face?

If Harry weren’t already sitting down, that would be his next move; he feels completely overwhelmed already, and it’s barely 7 am.

“Is there… I thought that was rather a yes or no question, boys? Am I wrong?” Lindy asks, quite condescendingly, Harry vaguely notices, breaking the silence yet again, and Harry’s eyes wander from his manager back to Louis. He’s finding it increasingly difficult to control them, keep them away. Louis always did have that effect on him.

Louis just stares back at him, features more measured than they were before. His face is still open, though, still as kind and beautiful as it always was. Harry had imagined, countless times, what Louis would look like as an older man. He hadn’t let himself look Louis up online, though, not after a few years had passed. Knew it would only lead him to making a stupid decision, like drunk messaging him on a form of social media, or something. So he was always left wondering, left to create an image in his mind, of what he thought Louis would grow to look like. He realises, reluctantly, as he studies every inch of Louis’ face in this moment, cataloguing all the differences, that he’s even more breathtaking than Harry could have ever imagined.

“Yes and no,” Harry begins, eyes still locked on Louis’, looking for any kind of movement, any kind of twitch that may convey an emotion to Harry, let him get an idea of how Louis feels. There’s nothing, though. He always was hard to read when he wanted to be. “We used to know each other, I suppose you could say.” He feels the words drag out, lets them lazily slope across the room to Louis.

He senses Lindy’s gaze on him, probably even more bewildered at his answer, but she smartly chooses to not push it any further, instead turning to walk out the door. Louis has to move then, to let her get out, and for a moment Lindy just waits patiently in front of him while he stares at Harry, until he finally snaps out of it, and shifts himself, eyes in some sort of daze. Harry can relate; seeing Louis is like seeing a ghost, and he’s sure it’s the same for him.

Emily and Liam both mumble some kind of excuse for leaving, something about giving them privacy, and then after that Harry cautions a glance around, realises they’re the only people in the room. It doesn’t feel much different to before.

His eyes come back to meet Louis, not missing how the other man’s gaze is slowly trailing its way down Harry’s bare chest, and he feels self-conscious all of a sudden, skin prickling all over. He knows he shouldn’t, because it’s _Louis,_ of all people, but then again… that’s exactly why he does. Harry bristles under Louis’ hot stare, and he watches as Louis blinks, eyes darting back up like he’s been caught, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. Nervous, maybe.

“So,” Harry starts, trying desperately not to let his voice shake, “‘s been a while, then.” It’s pointed, but subtle, an almost-invitation to an argument.

Louis gives him a look, eyebrows taught and mouth twitching, in the way that Harry knows means he’s longing to snap something back, but he’s biting his tongue.

“Yeah, guess it has,” he responds, still stood in front of the doorway. Keeping his distance. Harry understands, though; Louis’ quite good at that sort of thing. “I had no idea you were the subject for the shoot, by the way. Just so we’re clear. If I’d known–”

“What, you wouldn’t have taken the job?” Harry jokes, harshly, all notions of staying calm and keeping the sharpness out of his voice gone for a moment. The grating words feel awkward tumbling off of Harry’s tongue, directed at Louis.

Louis flinches at that, but the silence Harry gets in response to his question tells him all he needs to know.

“Well, I had no idea you were a photographer, so I guess it’s even,” Harry continues, as he gets up from his chair and strides over to the outfit rack, searching for the jacket Liam told him goes with the trousers. When he speaks next his eyes are on the clothes, and not Louis, in fear that they might betray his nonchalant tone, “Didn’t think it was your sort of thing.”

Louis scoffs at that, a harsh, nasty noise that breaks the still of the room, and Harry’s shoulders tense up at the sound. They’ve never really bickered like this before, it’s completely unfamiliar, all of this is. Harry continues to leaf his way through the garments, though, decidedly not looking behind him, back at the other man.

“Oh come on, Harry, of course it’s my ‘sort of thing’,” Louis retorts, tiredly, and Harry can almost feel the eye-roll that he knows comes with that sentence, directed at his back. He tries to not let it affect him too much. Louis sighs audibly, tone impatient, “It has been since– since we were kids. You know that.”

Harry finds the jacket, and busies himself with putting it on, at the same time attempting and failing to shove down any memories that are clawing their way back up, trying their hardest to resurface at Louis’ words.

Harry does know, is the thing. All too well.

_He feels the warm sun’s rays beat down on his bare face, as he squints up towards the bright blue sky, a colour that reminds him of a pair of eyes that he never seems to stop thinking about. He idly watches as white, fluffy cloud after cloud drift by, as he inhales the fresh scents of outside, letting the air fill up his insides with sweetness and warmth._

_The heat of the summer’s day is making him sleepy, along with the feeling of being cushioned by wild, plush, green grass, and surrounded by blooming wildflowers; he’s as comfortable and serene as can be. Nature’s bed, is what his mum calls it, the meadow behind their house where he’s currently laying, eyes drooping lazily as his body begs him to take a snooze._

_After a little while, he’s roused by a rustling coming from behind him, someone walking through the field towards where he lays. Harry secretly grins to himself. He knew he would find him._

_He bites his lip as he feels a presence appear near him, a set of footsteps coming to a stop next to his still body, and he knows his smile is being poorly concealed, but he can’t help it._

_“I know you’re not asleep, you know,” he hears, voice soft and playful and familiar, and at that he lets out a high giggle; he’s been caught._

_His eyes fly open, then, and immediately he hears the unmistakable snap of a camera going off, above him sees the familiar shape of his best friend, face obscured by a small lens that’s being pointed directly at Harry. He feels his embarrassed blush forming already, it always does._

_“Stop it, Blue,” he protests, half-heartedly, covering his face bashfully._

_Louis just chuckles, and takes another shot, before slumping down to lay next to him, assuming their usual position._

_Harry uncovers his face, looks over to the boy next to him. Louis looks all golden, face all lit up by the sun, eyes like the shade of the ocean from his book about sea life that he got for Christmas. He’s so pretty, and Harry lets a small sigh escape him at the sight. He can’t help it, really._

_He’s hyper aware of Louis’ hand resting so close to his own, wants so desperately to feel it rest in his, tummy in knots for a reason that Harry doesn’t understand, not fully. He melts into a strange feeling that’s becoming more and more familiar to him, with every passing moment he seems to spend with his best friend recently. Harry doesn’t know what it means, the racing of his heart and the warmth in his belly at the thought of having Louis’ soft hand in his own, only that it feels good. Really good. Like he doesn’t want it to stop._

_He doesn’t reach out, though. Never does. Too shy, too nervous about what Louis would do if he tried to hold his hand. Harry nibbles on his bottom lip just thinking about it, shaking himself out of his own head before he gets too deep into that train of thought again._

_The warmth of close skin has disappeared, and Harry’s eyes travel to find Louis’ hands, now up and already shaking the polaroid, gaze latched onto it, always eager like this for them to develop. Harry heard somewhere, his mum had said, he thinks, that you’re not supposed to do that, supposed to let it sit, and wait for the picture to appear on its own. He doesn’t really have the heart to tell Louis that, though._

_Louis turns to face Harry abruptly then, in the whirlwind way that he always does, whizzing into a quiet moment of Harry’s and making it one of theirs within seconds. He holds his head up with a bent elbow digging into the soft ground, eyes excited and bright as he shoves the picture into Harry’s hand, “Oh, but you look so lovely, Haz, look at you.”_

_It hasn’t fully shown up yet, still some colour that needs to come through, but Harry can get the gist of it. It is a nice picture, he supposes. His eyes are barely open, one hidden by a sleeve-covered, curled-up hand, and he’s in the middle of a laugh, mouth open in a wide smile, dimples that he hates because he thinks they make him look babyish out on full display. His curly head of hair is encircled by bunches of pretty flowers, like a halo, pink and purple petals blending together beautifully. He quite likes it, actually._

_“Hm. Yeah, maybe,” Harry mutters, feeling his cheeks heat up again. He should be used to it by now, Louis taking pictures of him, he’s been doing it since he found that old camera his attic a couple months ago, when they were exploring up there._

_“Well, I think you do,” Louis chirps, voice high and haughty and so very Louis. He snatches the photograph back from Harry, then, “And I’m keeping it, gonna add it to my collection.”_

_Harry feels butterflies in his tummy at Louis’ words, tries not to smile too widely so that Louis will notice and maybe tease him about it. Not that he ever would, really, now that Harry thinks about it. Louis likes Harry’s smile, he’s told him so. Tells him a lot, actually. It makes Harry feel warm and fuzzy inside whenever he does,_ almost _gives him the confidence to tell Louis that his smile is actually the prettiest; it always has been. Almost._

_Harry’s a bit breathless, now, doesn’t really know how to respond, either. He can only think to look across, fondly, at Louis, who’s studying the picture of him once again._

Someone bursts into the room, then, startling Harry, and thankfully disrupting his foray into the past, a journey that he had no intention of taking.

“Hi guys, um, they’re, uh, ready for you both. Now. If that’s okay,” it’s Liam, stumbling into the doorframe, almost as if he’s been pushed into the room, elected to be the person to come and break the tension and tell him and Louis to get a move on.

“Right,” Harry replies, finally turning around to face Louis again.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry sees Liam let out a breath, and then sharply turn on his heel and leave the room. Or perhaps escape, might be the better word.

Louis’ staring at Harry, face taught and eyes narrowed, evidently annoyed. A part of Harry, a deep, hidden part of him, breaks at it; he’s never been on the receiving ends of one of these looks from Louis, he never would have looked at Harry with such contempt like this before. It feels unnatural.

Harry supposes lots of things have changed since then, though.

Louis’ appearance, for example. Gone is the soft, baby face he remembers Louis having, even at eighteen; in its place a ginger-tinged scruff of a beard that only serves to make him even more attractive than before. A longer mop of hair on his head, still silky looking but messier, darker. His slight body has filled out, a little, too, strong arms and thick thighs that Harry definitely doesn’t remember. It’s all simultaneously familiar and foreign, and Harry can’t help but feel the urge to stay in the room and just study him, for hours maybe, make a note of everything about him that’s changed, and everything that hasn’t.

“Better go, then,” Louis breaks the silence first, turning towards the door to leave the small room, and tearing those icy blue eyes away from their stare, cutting off Harry’s visual journey. “I think,” Louis continues, as he gets a grip on the door handle, voice faint, “I think we should agree to put all personal stuff behind us, for now, before we go out there today. For the sake of the shoot.” He doesn’t look at Harry when he says it.

Harry stills at the words, surprised, for some reason. He swallows dryly, collecting himself. “Yeah. That’s– you’re right. I agree.”

He knows the shoot is important, is the thing, knows that, really, they’re both working on a job and that’s all that matters right now, regardless of any problems they may have with each other. Regardless of how much he’d very much like to do this exact opposite of what Louis’ asking of him, his curiosity about them and what happened having made a resurgence ever since Louis had stepped into the room.

Harry watches as Louis inhales deeply where he stands, shutting his eyes for a moment before letting them flutter open again. A calming tactic, something his mum taught him, Harry remembers. Of course he bloody remembers.

“Yeah, so.” Louis starts, turning to face Harry, face now blank and emotionless, mouth pressed together tightly before he speaks again. “Let’s just be professionals about this. I suppose we are colleagues, now, after all.”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch, his own body betraying him, something about Louis’ tone amusing. He sounds so oddly grown-up, so unlike the Louis Harry once knew. And perhaps it’s also how attractive Louis looks when he’s on a certain edge like this, body still and jaw set, a spark of something old and ignored reigniting deep within Harry at the sight.

He laughs bluntly. “‘Spose we are. Let’s get to it, then, co-worker. Don’t have all day to faff about, do we?” Harry’s words are only slightly over enthusiastic, with a hint of sarcasm, but he thinks he deserves that right. He elects to push away any leftover anger he may have, just for now, anyway, in order to get into the right headspace for the shoot to begin.

Louis nods stiffly, opening the door and leaving rather briskly, with Harry in his wake. Harry uses the opportunity to take a deep breath in a rare lone moment, calming himself down a bit. Letting it all begin to sink in. After that, he leaves too, greeted by a room full of awaiting, and slightly curious, faces.

As he confidently strides out, shoulders back and eyes focussed ahead, Harry can’t help but feel a sense of readiness for anything, any other surprises that the world might throw at him today.

Because, right now, nothing - nothing at all - could top the sheer shock of the reappearance of Louis Tomlinson in his life. Absolutely nothing.

 


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I’m on holiday again without my laptop so this is a day late, but I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I’ve taken a little break from tumblr but you can till find me at dreamsmp3, it just might take me a little time to respond. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are as always much appreciated ;)

Shrivelled leaves crunch underfoot as Harry jogs along the trail. It’s a crisp, cold morning, sun having barely risen before he set off for his early run. It’s bright now, but still freezing, cool air filling up his lungs on every inhale, each breath in time to his hard footsteps slapping against the muddy ground as he increases his pace. He’s starting to feel the strain now, lungs tight and breathing quick, calf muscles especially screaming, and he’s feeling particularly sapped of energy this morning, but he wants to get a good workout in during the only free time he has today. 

He’s got to get back soon, though, car coming to pick him up in about an hour or so. It’s day five of the shoot today, and Harry can’t help but feel a little reluctant to go. There’s just this strange atmosphere on set, is the thing, and Harry suspects that it might have something to do with a certain person. 

A certain Louis Tomlinson, to be specific.

Louis just feels a bit like a stranger to Harry, which is so fucking bizarre to think about, considering Harry remembers all these obscure little facts about him. He remembers exactly where they were when Louis lost his first tooth (out in the garden, they were playing on the trampoline), and where his one and only birthmark is (his right hip, Harry saw it for the first time once when they went swimming and asked Louis about it. Louis had originally told Harry it was a scar from a fight, like any eight year old wanting to impress their mates would have done. Harry had believed him, of course.) 

Also, the fact that old, repressed feelings seem to be insistent on resurfacing at just the sight of Louis, isn’t helping much, either. Harry’s really trying not to think about it too much.

With that thought, Harry comes to a slow and steady stop under a tree near the entrance to the park, touches the trunk out of habit more than anything. His chest heaves and his legs ache pleasantly, body warm and fully awake. It’s the same run he tries to do every morning, to try to exhaust his overactive brain and get him a good night’s sleep every evening, and living on Richmond Hill, so near the park, is useful for someone like him. 

He makes his way out of the park, then, squinting at the sun that’s fully risen now, shining right in his eyes as he walks down the road and round the corner and finally, through the gate leading into his house. 

After a quick shower and change of clothes, and a rushed cuddle and goodbye to Pippa, half an hour later Harry’s in a car on the way to the studio, watching fellow early risers make their own way to work out the window and hoping that today, with Louis, might somehow be different to what it has been thus far.

Working with Louis is something that Harry definitely was not prepared for, is the thing. It’s been an alright few days, hardly a few words shared between them apart from when Louis’ directing him for certain shots, and perhaps a greeting or two very early in the morning when they all arrive, but it’s still all quite… tense. It’s like every time he so much as looks at Louis, Harry can’t help the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that he gets that reminds him of how much he wants to get answers to long-forgotten questions, _needs_ them, even. 

The thing is, though, is that they had agreed to put all their differences, all their old feelings, he supposes, aside for the success of the shoot, which is fine, it was a good decision, but that’s sort of turned out to mean almost no communication at all. Harry has no clue how he would even approach talking to Louis in general, now, let alone about anything that’s happened between them. 

He wants to, though, is the thing. He wants to be able to talk to Louis, wants for it not to be so weird between them. He’s still upset, about a few things, but that doesn’t mean he can’t at least try, he supposes. Harry knows he’s probably guilty of some stuff too, knows they should probably have a talk to clear the air properly, now that he’s had a think about it, seeing as the last proper conversation that they had was day one, which just served to further confuse Harry.

So yeah, he’s going to try, he’s decided. He just hopes Louis is willing to try as well.

–

“Right, that’s good, yeah, maybe widen your arms a bit more? Show off the jacket, that’s it,” Harry’s thoughts are interrupted by that _voice_ again, all rough and ragged, probably just because they’ve all been up since so early in the bloody morning. It still manages to make his stomach do a little flip, though. _Jesus._

Harry blinks a few times, focussing his eyes once again on his surroundings. Various crew members he’d met initially are all either watching or busy with their own jobs, more or less all in the massive, white brick walled and high-ceilinged studio they’ve been using since the first day. He can see Emily and Liam standing together by the rack of clothes Harry’s going to be wearing today, chatting away as usual. There’s Paul, as well, the man behind this whole operation, someone very important, apparently. He’s the Creative Director of the magazine and he’s basically in charge of everything, Harry’s come to figure out. A nice bloke, bit bossy, if Harry’s being honest; he likes shouting directions at people randomly, voice a loud, booming thing that echoes, which isn’t great for Harry’s early morning brain, but it’s alright. 

Most important, though, is the photographer. For Harry, anyway. 

Louis’ in front of him, face behind the camera, finger clicking away as he takes shot after shot, and all he can see of him is the beanie he’s wearing, poking out above the large lens. Why Harry finds Louis’ particular hat choice endearing he’d really, really love to know.

He widens his arms, like Louis had said, lifting them up slightly, before chancing a quick glance down at his outfit. He quite likes what Liam had chosen to dress him in earlier; a gorgeous navy blue double breasted piece, with shiny gold embroidery and patches sewn on, colours playing off each other wonderfully. It’s at a length that almost sweeps the floor, as well, and Harry thinks it goes perfectly with the red and blue striped trousers he’s wearing. He definitely approves of this outfit. 

“I think you’d, uh, call this a coat, actually,” Harry says, matter-of-factly, tone edging on just too playful for this early in the day. The comment doesn’t seem to do much more than evoke an irritated sigh out of Louis from behind the camera. Harry just smirks to himself. 

“Right, a coat, whatever,” Louis mutters, distractedly, under his breath, which wasn’t the reaction Harry had been hoping for. And then Louis steps forward so he’s right in front of Harry, crouching slightly to get a picture from a lower angle, and, well. 

Having Louis on his knees so _very_ close to Harry’s crotch was truly not a visual that Harry had been prepared for this morning, and it’s safe to say his breathing has suddenly become slightly more difficult to control.

Harry clears his throat, a slight bubble of frustration blooming inside him, “Well, you see,” he starts, because Louis’ flippancy about the right name for the garment is slightly grating on him, “It’s not just _whatever,_ because this is a Dries Van Noten, d’you know who that is, Louis?” Harry asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer already. 

Louis doesn’t let out more than an annoyed huff, though, finger still clicking away, but Harry can’t imagine that the pictures are any good when he knows he’s just pulling an unimpressed face at the camera at this point, his serious model pout forgotten. 

“Of course I don’t bloody know who that is, Christ. Think I’m the fashion designer encyclopedia or summat, Styles?” There’s a hint of heat to his words, and Harry just scoffs at him. Louis’ joining eye-roll is hard to miss, too, as he pokes his head up above the camera, “And stop scowling like that, you’re ruining the shot.”

Harry releases an indignant gasp at that, mouth hanging open slightly in shock at Louis’ words. He’s slightly offended, if he’s honest, but says nothing, instead schooling his expression into something less tense. Seems that older Louis is a bit of a feisty one, then. Harry tries to ignore the spark of heat that he inevitably feels blossom in the pit of his stomach, frustrated at his own body for betraying him.

Harry hums, then tilts his head upwards and angles his body slightly differently for more shots, “No, I suppose you’re not.”

Louis says nothing, but Harry’s sure he hears another sigh come from the general direction of the camera, and tries not to let it annoy him too much. At least they actually held a conversation, that’s progress, Harry supposes. The weird tension between them feels less abrasive and apparent that at first, but it’s still very much there. 

“Right, Louis, do you reckon you have enough? I think it’s time for a wardrobe change, now, we’ve still got a few more to do today and we want these done before lunch if possible.” Harry hears it come from across the room, and jolts at the loud intrusion into the moment, forgetting about how much they’re on a strict time-frame. 

He looks over, and sees Paul waiting with an expectant look on his face, hand on his hip and radiating the pure essence of impatience. 

“Uhhh, hold on… I’m, um, let me just… check them...”

Harry glances back over at who the question was directed at, and sees Louis flicking through the images on his screen, distracted. Harry strolls across to him, tentatively, not sure whether he’s allowed to see the pictures or not. Not sure whether Louis wants him to. 

With any other photographer, Harry wouldn’t even think about looking, they are pictures of him, after all, but this is _Louis,_ and it’s different, somehow, and so he just needs to check.

“Can I see?” he asks, coming to a standstill opposite a seemingly unaware Louis, voice unsure and quiet. _God,_ he doesn’t know why he’s so insecure all of a sudden, with any other shoot he’d have his usual, easy-going confidence about him. Something about being around Louis seems to make Harry revert back to his shy, sixteen-year-old self, though. Harry’s not sure how much he likes it.

Louis looks up at him then, abruptly, evidently having not noticed him walk over, too engrossed by his screen. His eyes are a startling blue, so incredibly clear, just like he remembers, and Harry realises he hadn’t seen them this close up until now. 

Well. Recently, anyway. 

Louis’ gaze is hard to look away from now that Harry holds it, so full of calm and a certain warmth, somehow, dredging up an intense nostalgia within Harry that suddenly makes him _ache,_ ache for an old life, an old friendship, an old feeling. He loses his breath a bit at the sight, and it’s like they’re stuck in this moment for a second, time suspended between them while memories seem to flood Harry’s mind, all tinted in a particular shade of blue that Harry is achingly familiar with. 

Harry hadn’t realised how near to Louis he’d gotten, but with only the camera between them it’s safe to say he should probably take a step back. He doesn’t, though. Of course he doesn’t.

“Uh, yeah… sure,” Louis’ words are an airy whisper, a delayed response that Harry can’t help but notice. He gives Louis a small smile, all previous hostility between them momentarily forgotten, before slotting himself next to the photographer, and shifting his gaze to the camera’s screen, decidedly not letting any part of him touch Louis, not even a brush of their arms. He doesn’t need to be more distracted than he already is. 

Louis slowly flicks through, showing Harry all the pictures he’d taken of that particular session, even though there are still two other outfits from this morning that Harry hadn’t seen the shots from yet. Louis gets to one image and stops, and a tiny gasp escapes his mouth that Harry just about catches, his eyes immediately darting up to Louis at the sound. Louis’ staring at the screen, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, leaving Harry confused.

“Wow, this…” Louis breathes, eyes still locked on the screen, “This is stunning. It’s the one.”

Harry’s surprised when he looks and sees that it’s a picture of him Louis’ looking at. He has his hands behind his back, coat open so his bare chest is visible, his beloved butterfly on full display, and head tilted up and to the side in the way that he always does. His lips are slightly parted, which sort of makes Harry cringe, but he supposes it looks alright in the picture. His legs are crossed over each other as he stands, and they look so long, for some reason, almost beckoning the viewer of the image to follow the lines of the trousers down, down, down, until they reach the bottom of the photo. His old, scruffy pink converse are peeking out too, and they sort of tie the whole look together, oddly. 

He doesn’t really understand Louis’ reaction, to be honest, doesn’t think the picture is particularly something special, but he feels his cheeks heat up all the same at the compliment. He looks again across at Louis, who’s still staring at the picture, completely mesmerised by it, almost, which is… something. 

“Thanks.”

The word just slips out of Harry’s mouth, but it seems to have an effect on Louis, who clears his throat, suddenly, blinking his eyes like he’s just woken up from some sort of daze.

“Right, yeah, think we’re done here,” Louis turns away then, ignoring Harry’s word, eyes on Paul instead. Moment gone already. Louis walks over to Paul, then, and shows him the shots, Harry’s assuming. Harry stays standing in the middle of the room wondering what’s just happened.

“Right, H, ready for the next one? It’s the Edward Sexton suit jacket, with the plain white trousers, the ones I showed you earlier?” Liam’s appeared, carrying various garments and accessories in his arms, which is good, Harry thinks, perhaps gets his mind to focus on something other than Louis for at least a minute.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good, I’ll go put them on now,” Harry replies, taking the clothes from a smiling Liam (the man is always smiling, and it’s endearing yet slightly unnerving at times), and hurries into the dressing room for a quick change.

He slips off the coat and trousers and folds them up before picking up the white pair. As he’s pulling them on, he notices his face in the mirror, the tips of his cheeks tinted a slight pink. Harry groans inwardly, even though he supposes it makes sense; Louis always did have that effect on him. Why would it be any different now, five years later? He’s still trying to figure that out.

He strides out of the room, then, aware of the time crunch, and sees that everyone seems to be ready to go again. Louis making his way over to the tripod that’s been set up, hips swaying in a way that surely can’t be allowed. The way he moves is so delicate but sure, and he’s got these bloody _curves_ that Harry’s hands just itch to explore. Jesus. He really needs to get a grip. 

Harry gets into position and hurriedly, or, as hurriedly as one can do with a bespoke suit, shoves his arms into the jacket. He doesn’t miss Louis’ wandering eyes which rake up and down his bare top half _again_ as he puts it on, gaze lingering on what Harry can only imagine to be his smattering of tattoos. That in itself is not a help at all with the thinking-about-Louis issue that Harry’s currently facing, just serves to rile him up more. Harry supposes that it must be weird, though, for Louis to see him like this, so different from how he was before, as a boy. 

Then again, it can’t be any stranger for Louis than it is for Harry to see all of Louis’ tattoos as well, visible just slightly under his rolled up sleeves. Maybe they’ll even end up comparing them one day. 

Maybe Harry should just concentrate on the shoot instead of drawing up silly fantasies in his mind.

–

After a good half hour of getting photos in this outfit, Paul calls for lunch, and Harry thinks he hears everyone in the room heave a sigh of relief at the words, finally getting a much-needed break after the long, seemingly everlasting morning. Everyone starts to file out, slowly, leaving their various stations to go downstairs to where Harry knows there’s a meal waiting for them.

Harry gets up from the stool he’s been sitting on, then, stretching his legs and letting out a lazy yawn as he does so, body stiff from being in the same position for so long.

He hears a quiet chuckle, and turns to see Louis watching him, small smile on his face, “Tired already? We’re only halfway through the day.” 

Harry’s slightly surprised at this playful behaviour, but he’s definitely not going to question it, even though he’s supposed to be not too pleased with Louis. It’s hard, though, when Louis’ got that cheeky glint in his eye, smiling like he’s up to no good, an expression that Harry remembers too well.

“‘Course not,” Harry counters, with a smug edge to his voice, as he strips his jacket off slower than probably necessary. “I’m a machine, Blue, you don’t even know.”

The old, familiar nickname just… slips out, really. 

It takes a moment for it to sink in, Harry’s mistake, but seeing the look on Louis’ face is a pretty good indication that he’s said something wrong. Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat as soon as it happens, and he hadn’t even been thinking when he spoke, it just came naturally to him, the word forming in his mouth before he even realised what he was saying. It feels so intimate, though, is the thing, and wrong, almost, like it was an unspoken agreement between them that old nicknames were part of the ‘let’s leave our personal stuff out of this job’ agreement. 

All of the colour has drained from Louis’ face, brows furrowed and body rigid as anything as he stands and stares at Harry in the eye, fishmouthing like he doesn’t know what to say.

Harry also finds himself in the same boat, racking his brain for some of kind of explanation or way out of the awkward situation that never comes. 

The atmosphere in the room is still, and fragile, tension hanging between them heavily as they look at each other expectantly, and Harry feels hot all over, like someone’s turned the heating up even though he doesn’t even have a bloody top on. 

After a moment, Louis takes a shaky breath, before thankfully averting his gaze to the floor and breaking their stare. He shoves his hands in his pockets, to stop himself from fiddling, Harry knows, and takes another breath before speaking.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” it’s quiet, and small, but there’s a hint of warmth to it that tells Harry perhaps Louis isn’t all that uncomfortable about it. He hopes he isn’t, anyway.

“Of course I do,” Harry responds immediately, moving to step forward into Louis’ space out of instinct, and then second guessing himself at the last minute. “I– I used to call you it all the time.”

It was just a silly nickname, really. It happened by accident. They were just out playing one day in the fields, building snowmen after a particularly snowy Christmas that they’d had, having a competition to see who could make the biggest one. Harry remembers laughing until his stomach hurt that day, which wasn’t much different to any other day, always endlessly entertained by his best friend, the older boy who lived down the road. 

He remembers calling out for Louis to get him to look at his snowman, and all of a sudden being met by what would become the one of the most memorable sights he’d ever seen. 

It’s not like hadn’t seen Louis’ eyes before, it was just that particular angle. The sun was reflecting on the snow and onto Louis’ face, lighting up his sharp, pale eyes so wonderfully, and it was in that moment that Harry saw nothing but blue.

The word had just fallen out of his mouth, then, and he remembers Louis giving him a puzzling look, insisting that _no, silly, it’s_ Lou, _not_ Blue. Harry remembers telling him, after that day, that Blue was his new nickname, and when asked why, Harry said it was obviously because it rhymes with his name so well. He never told Louis that he called him Blue because of his eyes, his beautiful, _beautiful_ eyes, their exact colour so etched into Harry’s memory that he thinks he could replicate it perfectly if he tried. 

“Yeah. I remember,” Louis replies, voice airy and soft, and the sound of it makes Harry’s chest feel all tight, and heavy. His ears start ringing, breath caught, because the moment is weighing on him, weighing on _them,_ Harry can feel it, all of it, crushing them, and it’s so much all of a sudden, _too_ much, and it’s just a fucking nickname, for fuck’s sake, but he doesn’t know what to fucking _do._

Harry rakes a hand through his hair before taking a step to the side, and then another, towards the dressing room, creating some distance between them, taking a deep breath as he goes. 

“I’m uh, gonna go get changed and then get some food. See you down there?” Harry rushes out, at an impassive Louis. He’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets, focus not on Harry at all. Instead, his eyes are straight ahead, and brows furrowed, looking deep in thought.

“Yeah,” Louis replies, distractedly, eyes shifting lazily to meet Harry’s at the end of the word, “See you in a bit.” 

Harry nods, briskly, and leaves him standing there alone, everyone else long gone to lunch already. He gets into the room and lays the jacket on the sofa, strips off his trousers and into the trackies and jumper he wore into work this morning before slipping out the other door in the room, the one that leads downstairs. He can’t leave fast enough, has to get away from the weirdness of the studio for a bit. 

As Harry makes his way down the stairs, he realises how much harder this is going to be with Louis. God, if Harry had thought it was going well before, this was a harsh reality check that it really, really wasn’t. There’s just so much between them, underlying stuff that maybe, after all this time, they should just be adults and talk about. It was naive to think that they could get through next the six months of this shoot by just ignoring their history, and all the time that has passed; Harry knows this now. He just hopes that Louis has realised the same thing.

–

“Okay! That’s a wrap on day five! Everyone go home, you’ve worked splendidly today. I’ll see you all bright and early on Monday morning!”

For once, Paul’s foghorn of a voice is like music to Harry’s ears, and he can’t get up quick enough from the cross-legged position Louis’ had him sit in for the past few shots. 

It’s been alright, Harry supposes, after their moment earlier. The whole crew had been eating together when Harry went down to lunch, and Louis had trailed down a few minutes after, still looking distracted. They didn’t talk much, were at opposite ends of the table, but Harry knew Louis was watching him for most of the meal, practically felt his eyes burning holes into the side of his face. It didn’t help at all with Harry’s general muddled feelings about, well… everything, really. 

They’ve got that weirdness between them, though, now, _again,_ which is exactly what Harry didn’t want to happen. He can’t keep making progress with Louis and then have something slip out that ruins it all in one fell swoop every time; it’ll be exhausting. Not to mention detrimental to their dynamics when it comes to the shoot, too. 

Harry’s decided what he’s going to do about it, though, and although it makes him feel slightly nervous and apprehensive, he knows it’s at least worth a try, in order to attempt to clear the air between them, hopefully for good, or at least for the duration of this shoot. 

He spots Louis packing up his camera equipment like Harry’s noticed he always does at the end of a shoot day, cleaning his lenses before slotting them into their cases and zipping them up, lining them all up on a table by the wall where he leaves all his stuff every night. He watches Louis for a moment, watches the meticulous movements of his dainty fingers on the camera, can’t help but be a bit mesmerised by it.

He clears his throat before approaching, hands tucked behind his back, nervously, making sure Louis knows he’s there in order to avoid another accidental staring contest. Louis looks up, those piercing blue eyes still getting Harry even though he knew it was coming. Louis stills his ministrations, and raises his eyebrows at Harry expectantly, inviting him to speak.

“Um, hey,” Harry starts, and he can already feel his cheeks heating up, “I was just wondering if you’d um, like to go get some dinner, or something, tonight? Seeing as it’s the weekend, you know. And I, um, think it would be nice to talk, maybe. Catch up, I guess,” he stumbles his way through the question, unsure about it even as he says it, because it feels weird, all of it does, asking Louis to dinner like they’re still as close as they were, like it’s a normal thing they do. 

He can’t think of anything else, though, wants to be able to talk to Louis, properly, and soon, without being in the confines of a high-stress shooting environment. Inviting him for a relaxed meal seemed like the best option. 

Louis’ eyebrows raise minutely, and he blinks a few times, probably as surprised as Harry is that Harry’s just asked him this. He runs those dainty fingers through his fringe, and bites his lip, too. Both nervous habits of his.

Harry stands there, and he can feel his bloody heart rate increase just while he waits, so eager for Louis to agree to this, and he wishes he wasn’t. 

“Yeah, sure. That, um, sounds like a good idea, actually,” Louis replies, voice slightly nervous, too. They never used to get like this around each other, unsure of what to say, or do. Harry hates it.

“Okay. Good,” Harry breathes, audibly relieved at Louis’ response, “There’s this place near me, maybe you could come meet me at mine? It’s easier to walk there. I can, uh, text you the details. Oh, I mean, if it’s still the same–”

“Same number as before, yeah.” Louis gives him a small smile, unsure, almost. Like he didn’t expect Harry to have kept his number, after all these years. 

Perhaps Louis hasn’t kept Harry’s, and that’s why he’s surprised. Harry finds a tiny, miniscule part of himself hoping that he’s wrong about this assumption. 

“Okay,” Harry says again, leaning back on the balls of his feet, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the studio. “Cool. See you later, then,” he manages to spit out, walking backwards towards his dressing room, tripping over his feet, of fucking course, and silently hoping his embarrassment hasn’t made itself obvious through any hint of redness on his cheeks. 

He watches as Louis just nods, and smiles, weakly, before he finally reaches the door and lets himself inside. He leans back against the wall and catches sight of himself in the mirror, face all pink, because of course it is.

He needs to calm down, he knows, needs to pull himself together if he’s going to be spending the evening with Louis, can’t be like this after one short conversation.

 _There’s really no need to be nervous. It’s just Louis,_ he tells himself. _Just the person you’ve known all your life. Just the same person as the one you knew years ago, the same one who was your best friend, the same one you grew up with._

Harry steels himself, then, feeling a bit better, but then another thought hits him, out of nowhere, really, and all it does is take him back to square one.

_He’s just the same person who you fell in love with, all that time ago. The same one that you might still be in love with now._

Harry sighs to himself. Maybe there is a slight reason to be nervous, then. 

–

 _“So I'll settle for one day to believe in you, tell me, tell me, tell me lies,_ ” Harry sings along to the radio, voice echoing into the empty house, “ _Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies…_ ”

He’s freshly showered, which has put him in a good, relaxed mood, and he’s currently busy trying to squeeze his feet into a pair of slightly too small, but stunning, black, shiny boots, brand unknown but heavenly comfortable. His little, lone singalong is interrupted by the doorbell ringing, and the sound is such a shock that he almost topples right over. He’s grateful that Pippa is the only witness to this. 

He quickly shoves the boots the rest of the way on his feet, finally, and cranks the music down, the sound swiftly being replaced by Pippa’s excited bark at the prospect of a visitor; something that’s a rare occurrence for Harry.

“It’s okay, darling, stop shouting,” he tries, voice raised as he rushes through the house, from the kitchen through the living room and finally to the entryway, trying to source the puppy. 

She’s waiting near the front door, of course, barks getting even more erratic and sloppy as she notices Harry coming. He scoops her up and turns to open the door, not before catching himself in the tall, antique mirror standing in the hallway. He should probably get it cleaned, actually. 

His hair’s a bit loose and shaggy, a comb having been roughly dragged through the wild curls after his shower, but he thinks it looks okay. He hopes, anyway. Not that it should matter, though.

He’s wearing a variation of what he wore to work this morning, a warm jumper and some comfy jeans, decidedly not trackies once he remembered he was going to be going out for dinner as he was getting changed. As if he could forget, though, to be honest, his mind constantly swimming with thoughts of Louis for the whole of the past few hours between leaving set, and up until now, really. 

Speaking of Louis, it would probably be a good idea to actually get the bloody door. 

He unlocks it and turns the handle, and immediately a cold gust of night air hits him as the door opens,absolutely _freezing._

But then, Harry sees Louis, and all thoughts of the temperature are a distant memory.

He’s stood there, huddled in a heavy coat that Harry doesn’t recognise, one hand shoved into his pocket while the other’s in the middle of softly combing his fringe away from his face. His hair’s all fluffy, blown from the wind, probably, bright blue eyes striking as they contrast with his face nipped pink from the cold. Harry’s eyes find Louis’ lips, bitten, and distractingly kissable. The tips of his sharp cheekbones are red, too, and Harry almost loses his breath at the sight of it all. He’s just beautiful, really, and Harry should be used to it, by now, but he’s not. Perhaps he’ll never be.

“D’you have a fucking _gate_ to your–” Louis starts, as he walks in, Harry having the foresight to step aside once he realised how much they were both literally freezing standing outside. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his voice high and harshly inquisitive, before his eyes find the ball of fluff currently shivering in Harry’s arms. “Is… is that a _dog?_ ”

Harry pauses, and then lets out a surprised laugh, not sure what he was expecting Louis to say, but shock at Harry owning an animal certainly wasn’t it.

Louis continues to stare at the dog with a level of curiosity, a small smile blooming on his face, and a feeling of warmth within Harry just seems to grow at the sight. 

“This is Pippa,” Harry announces, dropping his eyes to the puppy he’s holding, who’s suddenly less excited and more timid now that Louis’ actually inside, this close, and Harry can’t help but slightly relate.

“Hello, little Pippa, you’re gorgeous, aren’t you?” Louis’ voice has gone all soft and gentle, in the tone that Harry remembers Louis only using on his younger siblings. And Harry, sometimes. The familiar sound makes something inside Harry melt, and he feels his heart swell, utterly endeared. 

At Louis’ greeting, Pippa just hides her tiny face in Harry’s chest, and Louis lets out an airy chuckle, before lifting his eyes back up to Harry.

“Bit shy, is she?” Louis asks, that sweet smile still there, and still lovely as ever. He looks back down at the puppy, next words quiet, and small, almost just to himself, “Well, they do say that pets are always suited to their owners.” 

Harry lets out a soft breath through his nose, amused. “You saying I’m shy, then?” he counters, without any heat, after a moment of letting Louis’ previous words settle. 

Louis’ eyes flicker up, a heavy blue. They’re standing rather close, face to face, and out of habit Harry’s gaze goes to find that familiar little cluster of freckles on Louis’ cheek. He always loved them. 

“Well,” Louis starts, and Harry can feel the warm breath caress his face as the word is released, feels a slight shiver overcome him at the sensation. “You used to be.” 

There’s a moment of silence between them, at that. Unsaid words and implications, of memories and past shared lives, hanging so heavily between them that Harry feels like he could just pluck them from thin air if he wanted. 

After a bit, Harry just hums in response to that, and holds Louis’ still gaze, not sure what to say. Not sure whether to tell Louis that he’s not shy anymore, not now, or whether to tell him the truth. That Louis somehow still manages to make Harry feel shy, and unsure, in a way that no one's been able to do for years. No one since him. 

Instead, Harry turns to find his own coat, and decides to change the subject, a diversion tactic away from his feelings, really; something he’s become quite skilled at in the past few years.

“So. You hungry?”

–

The five minute walk from Harry’s house in the chilly Winter evening, down the hill to the restaurant is idle chat. Polite, stilted conversation that almost edges on awkward, really, and Harry hasn’t felt relief quite like when he finally sees the familiar faded green canopy that tells him they’ve arrived at their destination. 

He holds the door open and then waits for Louis to go in, placing his hand on the small of the other man’s back to usher him in before he can think better of it. Louis leans into the gesture, as he passes over the narrow threshold, and having Louis this near, close enough that Harry can smell him; a citrusy, fresh cologne that immediately clouds Harry’s senses, well. It’s a lot. 

“After you,” Harry remembers to say, belatedly, as he watches Louis step ahead into the tiny, low-lit restaurant, voice too quiet and mind too fuzzy from purely _Louis,_ distracted by him in a way that is entirely familiar. 

Even just now, looking at him from behind, in the dim light of the room, the shape of him so recognisable. It’s enough to leave Harry breathless for a moment, as he gets hit by another wave of disbelief that this is _real,_ this is Louis, that he’s actually here, with Harry. After all this time.

Harry knows it’s been a week already, he should be over the shock by now, but then again. Five years is a long time to miss someone like Harry has missed Louis.

“Mr. Styles?” Harry blinks, refocuses his eyes, realises they’ve been stuck on Louis’ arse for the past few seconds, which. Isn’t necessarily the worst view in the world. Slightly embarrassing, though.

“Yes, sorry,” he responds, lifting his gaze so he’s met with the owner, Guilia. 

She’s studying him, darkly-outlined eyes narrowed in a calculating stare, dark purple lips lifted into what can only be described as a playful smirk, like she knows exactly what he’s just been doing. He feels his face heat up, even though he wasn’t checking Louis out on _purpose,_ it just sort of happened. 

“I was just telling your friend that your table is ready,” she announces, airily, with a glint in her eye and emphasis on the word ‘friend’ that Harry hopes Louis didn’t catch. Guilia’s a lovely woman, like an aunt figure, he supposes, had made him dinner enough times, when he’s had long work days and can’t be bothered to cook for himself, for it to seem like it. She’s also infinitely interested in his love life, though, which Harry has realised he’s got to sort of grin and bear if he wants to keep coming here. 

“Thank you, Guilia,” he replies, tone just on the edge of warning, as she turns on her heel and leads them across the room to their table. Louis’ silent at his side, but when Harry looks over he has a small smile on his face as his eyes are on the woman in front of them, and Harry doesn’t know whether to be worried or endeared that Louis already seems captivated by her.

“So,” Louis says, conversationally, after they sit down and shrug their coats off, one bottle of wine on the way. Harry looks up from his menu to see Louis leaning back in his chair, one arm on the edge of it and one resting on the table, a relaxed smile on his face; the image of calm. _It’s so easy for him,_ Harry thinks, _this is all so easy for him._ “Mr. Styles, then?”

Harry lets out a surprised chuckle, “Yeah, but it’s not, like… it’s like family here, you know? It’s not… not like _that.”_

Louis nods, gaze flittering away to take in the room, but Harry’s eyes stay on him. He catches sight of Louis’ tongue as pokes out to lick his lips, slowly, and Harry’s breath stutters. _Jesus. Pull yourself together._

“But it is… like that, at other places, right?” Louis asks, an eyebrow raised in question, eyes coming back to meet Harry’s, challenging, “I mean, you’re _The_ Harry Styles _._ It must be.”

Harry frowns. “Well, I suppose, maybe sometimes, yeah,” He agrees, suddenly self-conscious, casting his eyes back to the menu, finding a fraying edge of the paper to fiddle with, “I dunno, yeah.” 

It’s not that Harry doesn’t recognise his fame; of course he does, it would be difficult not to. But it just feels strange, talking about it with Louis. He can’t help but feel like he’s sixteen again, sitting here with Louis, before all the fame and confidence happened, like having this conversation shouldn’t make sense, in a way. It’s turning out to be rather hard for Harry to reconcile his past and his present coming together like this.

Louis lets out a soft sound at Harry’s stammering, a combination of a laugh and a weary sigh. “You know… I never knew you wanted to act. Was quite a surprise when I started seeing your face in the papers a few years ago. Couldn’t believe it, actually,” he fixes Harry with a look, studying him, lost in thought with words wistful. Those blue eyes full of _something,_ Harry can’t be sure what.

_You would’ve known, if we’d have spoken. If we’d have kept touch, I would’ve told you everything. I still want to, now._

“Well, a lot can change in five years, I suppose,” Harry counters, words holding a tinge of bitterness that he didn’t quite mean to slip out. Louis’ face softens, though, like he can see right through Harry; he always could. Like he knows the harsh tone is just a thin layer of protection over how Harry actually feels. 

An intrusive sense of vulnerability comes over Harry all of a sudden, because this wasn’t supposed to happen, he didn’t want to let it all affect him too much. But of course it did, because this is _Louis,_ and Louis still seems to know him better than anyone. 

The wine arrives then, which allows Harry to relax, a bit, gives him something to distract himself with. He takes a large sip after the waiter has finished pouring it for him, letting the sweet, deep flavour of the drink drown his taste buds. 

“I suppose it can,” Louis replies, finally, just loud enough for Harry to hear in the small space between them, in the tiny corner that their table is tucked away in. Louis’ staring at him like he’s got a secret, plush lips curved ever so slightly, and eyes bright and shining in the candlelight.

Harry releases a breath, continues to take the sight of Louis in. His face is just… practically glowing, really; radiating warmth and light that Harry can almost _feel,_ and Harry thinks that makes sense, because although it’s been years, he’s looking at Louis now, just like any other time before, and it’s still feels like he’s looking at the sun. 

The waiter takes their order, then, Harry going for his usual and Louis getting the ravioli, and Harry guessed he would have chosen that. He tries not to feel too smug about it, because it’s just pasta for Christ’s sake, but still. It’s comforting that he still knows him, even slightly. That there are parts of Louis that haven’t changed. 

Harry clears his throat after a moment, steeling himself. There’s a reason he asked Louis here, why he wanted him to come. Above anything, Harry wants answers, hopes Louis can give him some. He needs to try, at least. “So. D’you think we should talk about… you know.”

Louis’ eyes widen, like he didn’t expect it. He takes a little while to respond. “I– I’m not sure–” Louis stops, hums for a moment, lips a thin line. The air between them has become heavy with tension, and Harry’s entire body has gone rigid, ears caught on Louis’ every word. “I think, like I said before, we should just. Keep the past in the past, you know? Wipe the slate clean, that kinda thing.”

Oh. That’s. Not exactly what Harry was looking for. Not at all, in fact. 

Harry begins to frown, stuck on it, “But–”

“Harry.” Louis gives him a tight smile. A fucking _smile._ Like it doesn’t even matter to him. Harry supposes that makes sense, though; it’s not like Louis was the one who was the most affected by it all, out of the two of them, anyway.

Harry sighs, frustrated, but knows he should just leave it, though. It’s bizarre, and confusing, but Harry doesn’t want to ruin the evening. Perhaps he can try and breach this subject again another time. If Louis even lets him.

“So, photography, then?” Harry asks, changing the subject surely and swiftly, “How long you been doing that? Professionally, I mean.”

Louis’ features smoothen out, and he starts to answer eagerly. 

“‘Bout a few years, maybe. Around that. Photojournalism mostly. Ended up changing my course from English Lit to Photography about a day before my personal statement was meant to go off,” Louis informs him, eyes directed upwards as he’s recalling the memory, smiling softly at it, “Mum wasn’t too happy about that.”

Harry finds himself chuckling at that, quietly, leaning forward slightly, “Yeah, I’d imagine she wouldn’t be,” he agrees, readily, mind already cast back to years before.

He fondly remembers how Jay was, about Louis and his writing, always encouraging his skill of it. It came from a good place, and Harry knew that, and he knows Louis knew that, but it was always clear Louis really wanted to take pictures, that much was obvious from the very start. He’s not surprised that Louis ended up doing Photography instead, even if it was against his mum’s wishes. 

Louis’ reaction to Harry’s words is to shift in his chair; he’s uncomfortable again, taking a little while to respond. Harry knows it must be because of his own acknowledgement of their past, the familiarity between them. He can’t help it, though, can’t just ignore it. No matter how much Louis seems to want to. He slowly leans back in his seat.

“Yeah. Well. She’s happy now. Proud.” Past the candlelight, Harry catches the tips of Louis’ cheeks turning a pale pink at his own words, head tilting downwards in what Harry can only assume is bashfulness. It’s so unlike the Louis he knows to behave like this, all modest. It’s strange to watch.

“Yeah?” Harry’s lips twitch, and he leans forward in his chair again, eager.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, eyes coming up to lock with Harry’s for a second, before his gaze shifts down again, quickly, voice low and hard to catch, “Was really excited when I told her about this job, actually. But, you know how mums are. She just likes seeing me succeed, I suppose.”

Harry does know. He decides not to comment on that part this time, though.

“So how did you get this job, then? Do you have, like, an agent, or..?” Good. They’re in good, safe territory with this subject.

Louis looks up at him, then, and chuckles. It’s a sweet sound, twinkling and light.

“No, I don’t have an agent,” he explains, “I’m freelance, actually. Well, hope to open a studio of me own pretty soon. That’s the dream, anyway.” Louis’ voice has gotten smaller, embarrassed, even, like he’s lost confidence all of a sudden.

Harry nods, impressed, tone full of conviction, eyes focused on the sharp blue ones in front of him, “That sounds really cool, Louis. Seriously.” 

Louis beams for a moment, and Harry feels something akin to pride blossom in his chest as they sit there in silence. He has to stop himself from grinning right back like an idiot.

“But, yeah,” Louis speaks up, and the moment’s gone, “Another Man, um, actually approached me. Said they’d seen some of my other work and were interested in having me do this shoot. So, obviously I took the job, and here we are.”

Harry blinks at Louis’ words, “Oh,” he replies, dumbly, slumping back in his chair, “Oh, that’s. That must mean you’re quite good, then.” 

Louis’ face twists then, eyebrows creased into a frown, voice higher and louder than before, “Hey, don’t look too surprised. That’s a bit bloody offensive, actually.”

_Shit._

“I– no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–” Harry starts, eyes widened with fear for a moment, until he sees the playful smirk transpire on Louis’ lips, and he breathes a sigh of relief, a laugh lacing his next words, “You prick.”

“Your face! You’re way too wound up,” Louis tells him, amused, taking a sip of his wine. “Was only joking.”

Harry hums, unconvinced. He knows it was a joke, but he doesn’t like this, not knowing what the exact inflections in Louis’ words mean, doesn’t like not being able to tell immediately whether he’s taking the piss or not. It’s disconcerting, amongst other things. 

The food comes soon after, and they don’t really talk much, just sit in comfortable silence. It still feels tense to Harry, though, he feels unsettled, and with every cautionary glance at the person sitting in front of him he’s reminded of what strangers they really are.

“So,” Harry starts, after their plates have been cleared, “Why d’you think they chose you, then?”

“Who?”

“The magazine. Like, you must have a lot under your belt to be considered, right? Not having done a magazine shoot before, and everything.” Harry cringes at his words as they leave his mouth, but it’s too late.

Louis startles, a slight curve to his lips, eyes narrowing, “How do _you_ know I haven’t done a magazine before?”

“I– I just do.” It’s unconvincing, of course. 

“Did you _investigate_ me?” Louis scoffs, disbelieving, but evidently delighted at the prospect.

“No, I didn’t, I just. I like knowing who I’m working with, alright? I just like knowing stuff,” Harry attempts to explain, without digging himself in deeper.

“Right,” The word drags out, sarcasm not difficult to detect, “D’you do this with every photographer you work with?” The sentence is mocking, slightly, but playful, Louis’ eyes all lit up and challenging, and Harry can’t make sense of their dynamic at all.

“Well, I usually know who they are already, so no, not really.”

Louis smiles dryly. “So I’m just special, then?”

Harry’s breath catches at that, and he swallows uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond, their quick exchange coming to an abrupt stop. It’s far too hot in the room all of a sudden, the air too thin. 

Louis' gaze has shifted away, sharp profile lit up in the low light, the angle of his jaw working tensely. He’s avoiding Harry’s stare, seems to have realised what he’s said at the same time as Harry; the connotations behind it, how weighted of a question it has the potential to be.

Harry finally manages to force out an easy chuckle, light and only slightly on edge.

“Yeah,” he agrees loftily, as if it means nothing, as if saying it doesn’t dredge up every single potent feeling that he’s tried his hardest to bury over the past few years, “Guess you are just special.”

There’s a pang in his chest when he says it, a sharp pinch that causes Harry discomfort. It’s hard to say it so bloody breezily, as a joke, almost, because the words ring too true, hit too close to home. Or perhaps it’s just that Harry’s still so stupidly in love with Louis, that even just something like this is a small reminder of them, of what they used to be, of how special Louis was to Harry. How special he _still_ is. Perhaps that’s what ends up drawing such a visceral reaction out of him. Harry doesn’t think he wants to delve into that quite yet.

There’s a silence then, and it’s not comfortable this time, both of them shifting in their seats, avoiding eye contact. Harry can’t help but feel slightly defeated; this was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Hs wanted them to sort everything out, clear the air, even, not make it all even worse. He wants so many things, wants answers, wants closure, but it’s like there’s an invisible block in his way, inhibiting him from even saying anything to Louis, let alone breaching the topic of why they stopped communicating. It’s shit, and frustrating, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Harry stares at his lap, fiddling with the edge of his napkin, unsure of how to go on. Unsure whether he should. Nerves prickle in his belly, and he hates it, just wants to leave. He lifts his head up just in time to make eye contact with Guilia, and he assumes his gaze is pleading enough for her to sweep over quicker than usual.

“Can I interest either of you gentlemen in dessert?” she asks, all bright and breezy and not sensing the tension between them at all.

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Louis beats him to it.

“No, thanks,” he says, tightly, “Just the bill, please.”

Harry’s eyes dart over, and Louis’ glaring at the table, expression unreadable. Harry suddenly feels exhausted by the evening.

“Mr. Styles?” she asks, turning to look at him, confusion now evident on her face.

“Yeah,” Harry responds, tiredly, “Just the bill, please, Guilia, thank you.”

She nods, if a little stiffly, and wanders off. Harry sighs, then, at her retreating figure, really feeling the day weigh on him now.

He looks over at Louis, who still won’t look up, for whatever reason. Like he’s retreated into himself. The mood between them has changed utterly, from easy and familiar to harsh and unpredictable, like there’s some kind of wall between them that no matter how hard he tries, Harry just can’t get past. 

“You didn’t have to be so rude, you know,” Harry mumbles, eyes locked on the crown of Louis’ head, willing him to look up at him, to engage.

Harry hears Louis sigh, sees his shoulders sink in his chair. “‘M just tired.”

“Looking at someone when you’re talking to them doesn’t exactly require an extensive amount of energy.” 

It’s harsher than Harry intended, sharper, but it has the desired effect. Louis takes a little while, but finally lifts his head.

“Better?” he asks him, bitterly, cold eyes locked with Harry’s.

Harry hums, feels his nerves from before transform into annoyance. “Much.” 

_God, why are they like this?_

The air is icy between them, locked in a staring match that Harry doesn’t remember agreeing to take part in, only interrupted when a waiter brings them the cheque. 

Harry doesn’t even look at the amount before he starts getting his wallet out, knowing it won’t be too much anyway. 

“I’ll get it,” Harry says, to himself, mainly, as he slips his card out, ready to place it on the table while looking up to try and get the attention of that waiter, before he feels a firm grasp on his wrist and hears an even firmer voice speak up.

“No, we’ll split it.”

He stares at the hand wrapped around his for a moment; the delicate, warm fingers, with a not-too-tight grip, that says there for another beat before the other man lets go. He misses Louis’ touch immediately once it’s removed, as pathetic as it sounds.

Harry glances up, and suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, not in the mood for an argument, hoping to quell it before it starts, “No, it’s fine, I asked you here, anyway.”

Louis scoffs, not at all attempting to subdue his response, “I can pay for myself, funnily enough. I know we’re not all celebrities, but I can still get by pretty well on me own.”

Harry frowns and grits his teeth, anger seeping through his words, “That wasn’t–” he starts, and stops to take a breath, squeezing his eyes shut to let himself calm down for a second. He doesn’t understand how the evening’s gone so badly so quickly. Instead, he places his card down, and folds his arms across his chest, averting his gaze, “God, you’re difficult.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, but Harry would bet money that there was an eyeroll where words had escaped him. 

They pay, quickly, splitting the bill much to Harry’s frustration. He doesn’t quite understand what the fuck they’re doing, doesn’t know how to navigate Louis at all, has realised that now. There’s so many parts to him that are new, or different, and it’s going to take him a while to find, and get familiar with, every single one. If Louis even lets him, that is.

On the way out, Louis thanks Guilia as they walk past her, even giving her a small smile, and Harry’s given up trying to understand him for this evening.

They stand on the pavement in front of the restaurant facing each other, hands shoved in pockets and coats zipped up tight against the cold, dark night, waiting for the other to say something. Anything.

It’s raining, and Louis’ cheeks have gone all flushed-pink from the biting breeze already, almost Winter now. He’s shivering.

“I could, um,” Harry starts, voice coming out all low and crackly, and he doesn’t know why the thought occurs to him, it’s just instinct. He clears his throat, “I could drop you off, somewhere, if you want. S’quite cold.”

Louis stares at him, for a while, eyes flitting back and forth between Harry’s own, searching. His lips twitch into something resembling a smile, Harry thinks, although he can’t be sure.

“You really haven’t changed, have you.”

It’s not a question, but if it was, Harry still wouldn’t know how to respond. He just shrugs, confused at Louis’ words, unsure whether that was a yes or a no. 

“My car’s just–” Harry starts, thumb pointing over his shoulder, back towards his house, but Louis interrupts him before he can continue.

“S’fine. Thanks, though. I’ll just get the tube, it’s not far,” Louis replies, voice sure and firm, like he made his decision before there was even a decision to make. Harry can’t really be bothered to argue, knows he won’t get far, anyway.

“Oh, okay. See you next week, then,” Harry offers, at Louis’ already retreating figure, walking backwards and drifting slowly off into the night. 

“Bye, Harry,” Louis replies, quiet voice from a little way away barely audible above the rain, before turning on his heel and flipping his hood up, making his way down the hill.

Harry stands there for a moment, ignoring the cold, going over the evening, how it all transpired. He feels like he’s back at square one in a way, but then again, what did he expect? Did he expect them to put everything behind them, communicating like adults and going over everything simply and easily? Was he really that naive? Perhaps he wanted some kind of closure, or something, but it’s easier said than done, apparently. He chews his lip as he turns it all over in his mind, in silent concentration. He doesn’t know what he bloody wants, or what he expected, that’s for sure.

“Bye.” Harry answers, belatedly, Louis already too far to hear. 

As Harry ambles home, he recalls another moment, from what feels like a lifetime ago, similar to this one. But at the same time, so very, very different.

_Harry’s sweaty palm slips on the handle and he goes to open the old, heavy door; he’s so nervous. He notices the dark green paint peeling at the edges, and he feels a sudden jolt within him, because it’s something that he never realised was so achingly familiar until now. The family who live here are always talking about repainting the door, but they never actually get round to it; it’s like a running joke at this point. He’s going to miss it._

_He pushes into the house, and at first is met with silence. That is, until he catches the low hum of quiet singing coming from the kitchen, the sound fluttering prettily into the hallway where Harry stands. He gravitates towards the voice, and turns the corner, facing into the light, airy kitchen, where he sees the familiar outline of one of his favourite people, busy at the stove, and just the sight is enough to relax him a little bit. He feels his tense muscles loosen, as he leans against the doorway, watching for a moment before drawing attention to himself._

_“Hi, Jay,” he says, and immediately starts at his own voice; it’s all croaky, and tight, and if his face that he’s sure is still all red and streaky doesn’t make it clear that he has just been crying, the sound of his words sure will._

_Jay turns around at the sound, immediately, face full of concern, “Oh, darling, I didn’t hear you come in!” she says, crossing the distance between them and placing her hands softly on his shoulders. She’s always been so gentle with him._

_He gives her a weak smile, vision blurred by unshed tears, that he ends up having to blink away after a moment. Her face is full of sympathy as she looks at him, eyes warm and so incredibly kind._

_“So you know, then?” she asks, hands squeezing ever so slightly at the question, eyebrows furrowed in such a particular way that reminds Harry of Louis. He takes after his mum a lot._

_Harry just nods, choppily, bottom lip bitten between his teeth because he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, sure that he’s just going to erupt into another fit of sobs if he does so._

_“I’m so sorry, love. I know how hard it must be for you,” Jay pulls Harry in for one of her famous bear hugs that he just melts into. “I’m sorry you were kept in the dark, sweetheart. But it’s all for the best, yeah? I promise.” her voice is muffled from above him, as he buries his head into her shoulder, screwing his eyes tightly shut at her words, not wanting them to be real, not wanting any of this to be real. He feels hot and cold all over, and his head is already pounding from all the crying he’s been doing, and his stomach is in knots, and he hates this, hates it all._

_Harry takes a shaky breath, before leaning back slightly in her grip, “Is he here?” he asks, half hoping she’ll say no._

_“Upstairs in his room, love,” she replies, eyes flickering to the staircase that Harry knows is directly behind him. “He doesn’t know, I haven’t told him yet. Thought you might want to.”_

_Harry nods at that, because she’s right. This doesn’t mean, however, that Harry doesn’t feel the bubble of anxiety grow within him as he climbs each step, breathing getting more and more uneven, and heartbeat more and more erratic, but now he’s at the blue door, slightly ajar, and he doesn’t have time to worry anymore._

_He opens the door the rest of the distance, and at the creaky sound, Louis looks up from his bed where he’s laying, leaning against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles with his laptop balancing on his lap. It’s so familiar, Harry’s seen this exact sight a thousand times. He can’t bear the idea that he might never see it again._

_“Haz? Hey, what– woah, what’s the matter?” in the time it took for the words to leave Louis’ mouth, his face had gone from happily surprised to alarmed and concerned, and he’s already moved from his bed and across the room, just to right opposite to where Harry stands._

_Harry looks at Louis, really looks at him. Takes the gentle, soft, familiar slopes of his face in, the sweet curve of his nose, the visible smoothness of his skin, like velvet. That tiny triangle of freckles, on his cheek, the one Harry adores. He takes in the thick fan of eyelashes that blanket those bright eyes, the colour of a cloudless sky, and it reminds Harry of all the days they would spend outside underneath the sunshine, chasing each other through the fields behind the house, without a single care in the world._

_God. He’s so in love with him, and this is all so unfair._

_“I’m moving,” he says, voice shot, words crawling uncomfortably up his dry, thick throat. Two simple words that tear up his insides as he voices them out into the room, because now it’s real._

_At first Louis just stares at him, face crumpled in quiet confusion, eyebrows furrowed delicately and pink lips slightly parted. He looks expectantly at Harry, like he’s suddenly going to tell Louis that he’s lying, that this is all a joke, that of course he isn’t moving. Harry wishes on his heart of hearts that that was the case._

_Louis blinks, then, and swallows. “You’re what?”_

_His voice is low, and rough, and Harry’s eyes flutter shut at the sound. It reminds him of when Louis answers the phone early in the morning, crackly but soft, for Harry tell him about a strange dream that he’s had. Even when Louis’ obviously sleepy, he still stays awake to listen. He always does._

_Or, of when it’s too late at night, and they’re squished together in one of their tiny beds, in complete darkness apart from the pale moonlight seeping through the curtains, talking about everything and nothing, warm whispered words passed between each other like secrets. Harry never pays attention to what they say, though, not really, always concentrating on the sight of Louis’ chest rising and falling; calming and steady. Or on how the heat of Louis’ body feels, so very close to Harry, how his skin prickles at every point of contact. How it makes his entire body just ache with want, and his heart rate quicken, like a tiny drummer beating against his chest._

_Harry always basks in that feeling, lets himself melt into it, freely, every time, because he knows what it is. He knows what it means. Except now, now it’s like his entire universe has been tipped sideways, and nothing feels right, and this particular moment is smothered in something dark, and cold, and Harry terribly wants to just escape it, but he can’t._

_“We’re moving, Blue. Leaving. I have– we have to go. Mum just told me today, just now. I had no… I didn’t know any of it was…” Harry’s own voice sounds unfamiliar, all high and anxious, and it just makes him feel even worse, his own body not cooperating with him. He can feel some new tears leaking down the sides of his face, or maybe they’re old ones, he doesn’t know, all he knows is he feels awful, and he can’t get his words out properly, mind clouded with misery and panic, and Louis’ just standing there, looking at him calmly, like the entire world isn’t ending._

_Louis steps closer, then, slowly, carefully, and Harry’s stomach jumps, hope curling in his chest, his mind losing all sense of logic for a second because he thinking that maybe this is it, maybe this is the moment that–_

_And then, warm, familiar fingers tangle with Harry’s own, soft and small and delicate, and somehow, that’s even better. He feels his entire body loosen, and relax, his held breath come out on an easy exhale, because having Louis’ hand in his is like holding home, and for a split-second, everything’s alright._

_“Oh, don’t cry, love,” Louis tells him, voice taking on that soft, barely there tone that makes Harry’s insides melt, “Just tell us what’s going on, yeah?”_

_Hearing him ask like that, so concerned and utterly lovely, just breaks Harry’s heart even more, because it’s that voice, the one he always uses when Harry’s upset, the one that’s entirely gentle. Louis might be standing right in front of him, but in that moment Harry misses him already, desperately, feels an intense longing for him even though he’s right there._

_Harry doesn’t exactly know how he responds, a jumble of words mixed with poorly tamped-down sobs that shake his inner core and nip at his lungs mercilessly, but then he’s in Louis’ arms, and suddenly he can breathe again._

_He feels Louis wrap around him, encompassing him, the familiarity of the feeling calming him almost immediately. Soothing reassurances warmly whispered into his neck where Louis’ buried his face help too, immensely, but Harry hates this, hates everything about it, is caught between the urge to run away from the inevitable, and his constant desire to stay in Louis’ embrace forever._

_The gentle, sweet kiss that Harry feels on his hot skin sends his heart into overdrive, makes his tummy turn because God, he doesn’t think anyone’s ever cared for Harry like Louis does, looked after him and protected him as much as this. Harry loves him so much, and it isn’t fair, none of this is fair at all._

_Harry feels a fresh bout of hot tears leak down his face, squeezes his arms around his favourite boy even tighter, as tight as he can, willing him to not leave his hold, and he tries his hardest not to let a pressing confession slip out of his mouth, the one that’s been bubbling up inside him since he walked in the room._

_Not here, not now. It wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Louis’ his best friend, and he doesn’t want Harry the same way. He doesn’t love Harry the same way Harry loves him, and that’s fine. It has to be._

_It wouldn’t make a difference at all._

_It’s a moment later when Louis wipes his eyes for him, his touch on Harry’s face so warm and soft and reverent, that Harry has to physically stop himself from telling Louis how he feels. It’s just so hard, because he needs more time, he wishes he had more time, for everything. But he doesn’t._

_Instead, Harry goes about explaining everything to Louis, spurred on by the feeling of safety in Louis’ hold, about the divorce and why they have to move, how long they have left together, only a short three days that may as well be three minutes with how much it’ll feel like to them._

_“We’ll still stay in touch, though, won’t we?” Louis tells him, with an air of confidence that Harry could only hope for. Louis’ always been like that, always found it easy. Harry envies it. “Distance won’t be that bad, just wait. It’ll be okay, Harry, I promise, yeah?”_

_His words cut like knives, and Harry has to take a step back for a second, because it won’t be okay, Harry knows it won’t be, perhaps for Louis it will, but for Harry… for Harry, it’s going to be the worst thing in the world, for so many reasons. He can’t imagine it, can’t process it, even. Doesn’t want to._

_“Of course we will, obviously, but– This is just… It’s crap, Lou. I’m just. I’m not like you, you’re about to go to uni anyway, I’m gonna have to move schools, gonna have to do my last two years with a load of people I don’t know, in a massive, scary city and I– I don’t want to leave,” Harry can’t even see from the tears blurring his vision, heart jumping at his next words, risky and selfish and loaded, and yet everything he desires, “I want to stay here, with you.”_

_“Oh, Harry…,” Louis starts, voice a pitying whisper, and Harry feels self-conscious all of a sudden, vulnerable and small, “Look, H… I think, if your parents made this decision, it’s obviously for the best, yeah?”_

_Louis sounds all positive, happy, even, and that… that wasn’t what Harry was expecting at all, and he feels a touch of betrayal on Louis’ part, for taking his parents’ side instead of his. He doesn’t understand, does Louis even care? Does he even want Harry to stay?_

_He frowns at his best friend, confusion and anger sparking in the pit of his stomach, melting into one muddled emotion, “What?” he asks, his own voice harsher than he’d ever heard it before, “No, Lou, it’s not for the bloody best, it’s shit, is what it is, and I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”_

_Harry feels upset, feels alone all of a sudden, like no one’s on his side. He steps away from Louis, considers leaving before he quickly decides against it, and rests against the far wall instead, concentrating on the fraying edge of the carpet and not on the other boy in the room. He just wanted support, just wanted to be heard. And now Louis’ telling him everything he doesn’t want to hear, just sounding like another adult. He just wanted his best friend, the best friend that he’s about to be separated from. Harry blinks, rapidly, trying to quell the new tears that have formed._

_He senses Louis walking towards him, from across the room, and doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t._

_“Hey, please, H, let’s not fight, yeah? Not when–”_

_Before he knows what he’s doing, Harry’s wrapping his arms around Louis again, the older boy’s warm, tight embrace always an instant comfort to Harry. He nuzzles into the crook of Louis’ neck, into that soft and familiar spot, his little hiding place when it all gets too much._

_“I’m just,” he whispers, against Louis’ skin, and he feels Louis’ hands hold onto him, then, finally, and he immediately relaxes under his touch._

_“You’re what, love?”_

_Harry leans back, just enough to look up at him. God, he’s so pretty, always so pretty. Harry doesn’t know how he’ll cope not seeing that face every day. Not hearing his teasing voice or his twinkling laugh. Not being able to come and have a cuddle when the world is all too overwhelming. Not feeling Louis’ soft, heavy hand in his during those rare times when they lay out in the meadow behind their houses, under the dark blanket of the night, gazing up at the pinpricks in the sky that make up the stars, while their fingers end up loosely linked together, tentatively, as if to ask the other if it’s okay. (It’s always okay)._

_“I’m just gonna miss you, so much, Blue. So much. You’ve… you’ve no idea how much.”_

_He really hasn’t any idea, Harry’s sure of that._

_“Harry…” he hears, Louis’ voice whispered and low and Harry misses it already, “I’ll– you know I’ll miss you more than anything. Absolutely anything.”_

_Louis’ looking at him so sincerely, eyes shining and so very blue, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks languidly while he speaks, and Harry’s never wanted to kiss him more in his entire life. Louis’ words wrap around Harry’s heart, anchoring it in place, here, in this room, where he knows for sure it’ll stay._

_Louis’s arms loosen around him, and Harry has to stop himself from whimpering pathetically at the loss, berating himself inwardly for his behaviour. Louis is fine, and Harry can’t hold onto him forever, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how much he wants to._

_Louis gives him a small, easy smile. Harry tries to offer one in return, although it’s much harder for him than it probably was for Louis._

_Harry breathes out, deeply, “I, um, told mum I’d be back. Soon. To help pack, and stuff,” he tells him, turning towards the door. He should go, now. Get used to it._

_“Yeah, sure, no problem, H,” Louis says, voice light, and unhurried. Harry’s chest tightens._

_“See you tomorrow, though?” he asks, not even attempting to keep the sheer desperation out of his voice._

_“Of course you will,” Louis replies, smiling, like it’s all fine, and nothing bad is happening. Harry almost believes him for a moment. “You know where to find me.”_

_Louis laughs, looking the epitome of ease, and the familiarity of the joke and the sound makes Harry ache, although he can’t help but join in; Louis’ happiness always being slightly infectious._

_“Yeah,” Harry agrees, trying to contain his fresh bout of tears until after he leaves Louis’ room. Louis seems alright now, anyway, nowhere near as torn up as him. Harry doesn’t want to tarnish that with any more tears. “I’ll come find you, Blue. Promise.”_

_He gives Louis a small wave, which Louis returns, and then he slips out of the room, noisily thumping down the stairs until he reaches the front door. He doesn’t even stop to say goodbye to whoever’s downstairs now, too focused on wiping his eyes with the back of his already-damp jumper sleeve, and leaving as quickly as possible._

_Harry sniffs as he makes his way back towards his house along the old gravelly drive. His old house, now, he supposes. He tries not to think about it, just for a few more days. Instead, he’ll distract himself with thoughts of soft hands and blue eyes and a gentle voice. Attempt to focus on trying not to miss something that, for now at least, is still his._


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I think this one is on time now, more or less. This is the first chapter with smut so be gentle with me lmao I hope it's all good. Massive thank you to Taya for being the best beta EVER and getting this chapter done so fast, I adore u !!!!
> 
> Ok so that's it, hope you enjoy friends. I'm on tumblr as dreamsmp3 but currently on a break so feel free to message me I just may take a little while to respond. As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated too!

The trip to work this morning is a short one, and Harry spends it gazing sleepily out of the tinted window at the grey, dreary London morning, heavy clouds crowding the sky and deserted pavements still damp from the overnight rain. It’s still too early for anyone with normal jobs to be up, he suspects. 

The strong artificial scent of the car air freshener prickles at his nostrils, the taut leather of the seat uncomfortable where he sits, and he rearranges his position multiple times before giving up entirely. He catches Brian glancing his way in the rearview mirror once or twice, probably wondering why he’s so antsy this morning. Harry slumps in his chair, letting his mind wander for the remainder of the journey.

He’s frustrated, is the thing. Feels like he got nowhere with Louis the other night, not really. Even spent all weekend going over their conversation in his mind, trying to pick out the parts which showed any kind of progress for them, and coming up short. He supposes he knows a bit more about Louis and his life now, which is good, he will admit, but. But it all still feels unresolved, between them. Like there’s something he’s missing, he can’t quite put his finger on it. They hadn’t even attempted to discuss their past, either, after Louis got evidently uncomfortable at the mere hint of it. It’s something Harry doesn’t understand, either, Louis’ discomfort, seeing as he’s the one who–

Harry halts his stream of consciousness, then, and sighs to himself, lets his head rest against the headrest and his eyes droop shut, just for a moment. It’s too early for these type of thoughts, too early to try to decipher any of it.

Too soon, the car comes to a slow stop, and Harry blinks his eyes open to see the vast studio building looming up in front of him through the window. He pulls the cool metal handle on the car door, and after a hurried goodbye to Brian, he steps outside into cold morning, already feeling a chill rest in his bones. He takes the few steps across the pavement to the entrance and reluctantly removes his hand from his warm pocket to push the building’s glass door open.

“Could you ‘old the door, please!”

The voice isn’t hard for Harry to place, and his suspicions about who it belongs to are confirmed when he twists round on his heel on the slippery ground and is met with the sight of Louis. Or, rather, the outline of him. 

He’s trudging up to where Harry’s standing, juggling multiple camera bags, Harry assumes. He’s dressed in a massive puffa jacket that is slightly ostentatious, even by _Harry’s_ standards, and looks warm enough for bloody Arctic temperatures, even. The dark fur lined hood almost completely covers his face, those familiar, calculating eyes the only other way Harry realises it’s him. Harry barely suppresses an eye-roll at the dramatics; it’s not _that_ freezing. He supposes Louis always did get cold easily, though. 

“No, really, take your time. We’ve got all day.” Harry leans against the open door as he watches Louis amble over, slowly, immediately being met by an icy stare in response to his sarcasm. Well. He probably deserves that.

He’s just about to apologise for his grumpy early morning behaviour when he doesn’t quite get the chance.

“S’at your driver I just saw pulling away?” Louis asks him just as he gets to the door, words edging on accusatory. 

Harry stares at him, unsure of where this is going. “Yes. Why?” They’re still standing in the doorway, and yes, okay, it is actually quite cold. Harry doesn’t have the time for meaningless small talk, and neither does Louis, quite frankly.

“Nothin’,” Louis mumbles, loftily, as he pushes past Harry, into the building along with his abundance of equipment strapped to him, that at least half of which bumps into Harry. “Just think it’s a bit odd, getting driven in every single day.”

It’s pointed, at least it sounds like it is, and Harry can already feel the bubbling frustrating rise up within him at the topic of conversation.

He sighs, and finally follows Louis down the small set of stairs that lead into the much warmer lobby, tiredly asking him, “What d’you mean, odd?”

Louis stops in his tracks and turns to look up at Harry, face still partially obscured by the ridiculous yeti-hood he’s wearing. It’s quite distracting. “I mean, like, public transport would probably be a lot quicker, s’all”

Harry’s bored already by this, and he’ll admit that he doesn’t try too hard to not let it seep through into his words, “I can’t take public transport.”

“What?” Louis looks incredulous, as though Harry’s just told him something far more ridiculous, 

“D’you not have an oyster card or summat? They’re piss-cheap.”

Harry does roll his eyes now, and shrugs his shoulders lazily as he attempts to explain. “No, I– it’s just easier for me not to, like. Too many people, hard for me to get anywhere without being stopped a few times, you know?” 

Louis gives him a look, then, eyebrows raised and mouth curled into a grimace; something akin to judgemental, and Harry doesn’t like it. It’s not his fault that he gets recognised all the time, so much so that going on the tube would just be completely time-inefficient. Well, perhaps in a way it is slightly his fault, but still. He’s not going to say no to a complimentary car service every morning, either. Nor does he have to justify that to Louis, of all people. Why they’re even having this conversation is a mystery in itself to Harry.

Louis doesn’t answer, just makes a noise that tells Harry he’s not convinced, and instead turns and walks down the remaining steps, towards the reception desk. 

Harry follows after him, willing himself not to get too worked up too early in the day. Why should it matter that Louis obviously finds his method of commute strange? He shouldn’t care what Louis thinks, but he does, for a reason unknown, has already let him get under his skin.

“Good morning! Studio six, right?” The always-bubbly receptionist, Becky, chirps, as they both lean against the smooth wooden desk waiting to be signed in. She’s nice, Harry likes her. Always remembers his coffee order exactly. 

“Yeah, that’s the one, thank you so much,” Harry responds, and flashes her an appreciative smile, which she returns almost immediately, grinning wildly back at him. So much energy for so early in the morning, it almost exhausts Harry to watch. 

“Of course, Mr. Styles! You’re always welcome,” she practically purrs at him, and he finds it entertaining more than anything, chuckling at her familiar yet overzealous reaction. It’s been the same back and forth every day this week, her hard-to-miss eagerness to please him, and Harry’s easy indulgence of it. 

“Well, I’ll definitely keep that in mind, then, Becky,” Harry quips back, as she taps away at her keys, presumably letting everyone in the studio know that they’ve arrived.

She giggles at that, rather piercingly, face even turning a shade of pink, and Harry just winks at her, finding the situation all much too amusing. 

Beside him he hears a poorly-concealed cough, and looks over to see Louis leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, lower lip bitten between his teeth in irritation, probably, if his foot tapping away impatiently on the marbled floor is any indication. He’s finally taken that ginormous yeti hood off, and his fringe is all messy and unstyled where it lays across his forehead.

Harry’s fingers itch to sweep through it, despite the fact that he’s really starting to get on Harry’s nerves. 

“Y’alright, Louis? Need a lozenge or something?” Harry asks, voice laced with false-concern, and words tinged with an artificial sickly sweetness, punctuated by a wide grin. 

“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself, love,” Louis answers, tone just too jolly to be sincere, “Just wondering if we’ll even make it into the studio at this rate, s’all.” He gives Harry a relaxed smile, which just serves to irritate Harry more.

Harry’s skin prickles with annoyance, and his smile quickly transforms into a frown as he stares across at an unfazed Louis, the tension between them now far more palpable than when they first stepped into the building. 

“Um, I think–” A smaller, milder version of the twinkly voice from before interrupts their heavy gaze, “I think you can go in. Now.” He can tell that she’s feeling uncomfortable observing them, and Harry can’t help but feel like he’s part to blame. 

He turns back towards her then, still feeling Louis’ unrelenting stare on the side of his face, “Thank you so much, Becky. See you later.”

She gives him a meek smile as they both step away from the desk and towards the corridor that leads to the lift, and he waits until they’re halfway down and out of earshot before he turns to Louis.

“That was a bit ridiculous,” he mutters, as they walk side by side, coming to a stop by the lift doors.

Louis turns towards him where they stand, and Harry can recognise the indignant expression on his face from a mile off, nose scrunched and eyebrows knitted in annoyance, “What d’you mean?”

Harry presses the call button and rolls his eyes. “Your behaviour, Louis. It was so unnecessary.”

 _“My_ behaviour?” He demands, voice going all high-pitched, the same way it used to do whenever he’d get in trouble when they were kids, fighting his case ever so passionately every single time. He crosses his arms, and turns to fully face Harry, “What about _her_ behaviour? Unprofessional if you ask me.”

Harry huffs. “Well, no-one did ask you, so.” 

Louis scoffs and turns to face forward, a sardonic smile curling onto his lips. “Yeah, well. You didn’t seem too put off by it, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry suddenly feels defensive and self-conscious, wondering for a moment if he’d pushed it too far back there with her. He shouldn’t have to police his own manners, though, shouldn’t let himself get so affected by what Louis has to say about them, either. 

“Nothin’. Don’t worry about it,” Louis responds, breezily, muttering under his breath about how long the lift is taking. “Just gets tiresome having to witness the exact same thing morning after morning, s’all.”

“What? Me being polite?” Harry challenges, trying not to raise his voice too much. Louis is so fucking frustrating is the thing, always knows exactly how to get under Harry’s skin, knows every single one of his weak points. “It’s not gonna come any faster no matter how many times you press the button, by the way.”

Louis gives him a look, thoroughly unimpressed. At what exactly, Harry isn’t sure, “Sure, _polite,_ ” he says, sarcasm dripping from the word, “if that’s what you wanna call it.”

Harry sighs, but it’s partly in relief as the lift doors finally open, and steps inside next to Louis, the space uncomfortably small and compact, barely enough room for two in it. 

“It’s harmless, Louis.” The fights gone out of him now, he’s too tired to keep bickering, if that’s even what they’ve been doing. “Doesn’t mean anything,” he adds, and for what reason he doesn’t bloody know. It’s not like he needs to defend himself to Louis. It feels that way though, and he wishes it didn’t. 

Louis turns and leans across him then, all of a sudden bracketing Harry up against the wall where he stands, body pressed right up against his in one fluid movement. Harry’s eyes slowly follow Louis’ hand as he moves to click the button for the second floor, wrist lightly grazing the side of Harry’s hip where it rests next to the panel. In this position, he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of Louis, citrusy and musky, and ever so slightly familiar. 

“Whatever you say, love.” Louis winks, eyes locked with Harry’s own, almost too close for him to focus properly. His voice is soft but low, mocking and unconvinced, and that combined with their close proximity makes the frustrated fire flare up in the pit of Harry’s stomach even more, his breath runs short and body tenses up, and he doesn’t respond. They’re still so close, though, Louis hasn’t moved away yet, and Harry can feel his hot breath against his chin, feels dizzy with it, could easily lean down and–

The doors ding open before Harry can get too lost in thought, and they spring apart immediately at the grating sound. Louis clears his throat, busying himself with all of his equipment, and Harry releases a breath, too hot all of a sudden, the lift far too small. 

He marches out without another word, and straight through the door into the studio, needing some fresh air and a much clearer head. All thoughts of Louis Tomlinson now strictly limited to photographer-related only. Or so he tells himself.

–

“No, no, no, this is all wrong.” 

Harry tries his very hardest not to roll his eyes _again,_ for probably the third time in the past half hour, but the urge is so very strong. For one, he’s overheating in this leather jacket, plus he’s getting tired and antsy from standing up for so long, legs and back aching from being in the same position for the entire hour since the end of their lunch break. On top of everything else, Louis, accompanied by his incessant protests that Harry isn’t doing anything right, is really starting to piss Harry off.

Harry sighs, turning to face the photographer standing in front of him, who wears an equally irritated expression where he stands behind his camera. Harry can’t help but let his eyes trail down his body as he goes, catching on every soft curve and harsh dip, tight jeans and close-fitting t-shirt leaving very little to the imagination, although Harry doesn’t let that stop him. 

“What d’you mean?” Harry asks tiredly, his gaze coming to rest onto Louis’, as he places his hands on his hips and slumps slightly in place, “I’m doing exactly what you told me to do, Louis.”

Louis tuts, actually _tuts,_ as if they’re bloody children, and Harry has to stop himself from commenting on that, too.

“Well, obviously you’re not, or else we wouldn’t be in this predicament, now would we, Styles?” The artificial smile that accompanies his question makes it come across even more condescending, and Harry’s had enough, quite frankly. 

He knows this is because of all that unresolved tension they have between them, whatever it’s about. It’s the reason behind this, the reason they keep getting so snappy with each other. Harry had thought that dinner would have solved it, but it seems to have made it worse. At least before, he had imagined that they’d be able to get through the shoot easily after a chat, but it’s becoming painfully clear to him that that’s not the way this is going. 

Their persistent bickering combined with Harry’s inconvenient attraction to Louis have both become a glaringly obvious distraction, and Harry can’t have that, not on a shoot like this, something that’s so important to him. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how the fuck to stop either of those things from happening. 

“Maybe your direction is just shit?” Harry counters, stepping towards Louis and becoming painfully aware that they’re in a room full of people; high, bare ceilings making their quick words echo and bounce off the walls easily, their conversation anything but private. “There’s a question.”

“That’s not a question, that’s an observation,” Louis responds, matter-of-factly, and the muscles under the golden, smooth skin of his jaw flex as he grits his teeth, distracting Harry, eyes constantly travelling to watch the bone tense and relax as Louis argues on, “And a poor one at that, too.” 

“Right boys, why don’t we take a break?” Harry hears another voice behind Louis, distantly, but he doesn’t for a second let himself take his eyes off of Louis’ hot stare. Maybe it’s Paul trying to intercept whatever the fuck’s happening.

After hearing footsteps to his right, he looks over to the edge of the room, and sure enough, Paul’s making his way over to them both, running his hand through his thinning hair repeatedly and appearing thoroughly stressed out. It’s then that Harry becomes aware that everyone’s staring at them, every single crew member dotted around the room watching on as they bicker stupidly, and he feels a flash of embarrassment zip through him at the realisation.

Paul comes to a stop right next to them, as if he’s readying himself to pull them apart at the drop of a hat if that’s what it comes to. Harry almost laughs at the idea, but stays quiet.

The seconds slip past, and no one says anything for a moment.

“That’s probably a good idea, mate,” Louis’ voice materialises, taut and thin, into the tense still of the room and breaking the silence.

Paul nods, tersely, gaze switching between the two of them as he speaks, words final and definitive, “Good. You two need to sort whatever this is out alright? We’ll see you in ten.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry’s sees everyone start to leave the studio in a slight rush at Paul’s words, including the Creative Director himself, and then after a minute, it’s just the two of them alone in the room.

Harry keeps his gaze focussed on Louis, feels himself getting hotter and hotter by the second, trying his hardest not to get too worked up, in more ways than one, but fails miserably. 

After a moment of glaring at one another, Harry decides to start it off, “Just admit that you don’t know what you’re doing and need some extra help with this shot and we can all move on.”

Louis looks affronted at first, which Harry had assumed would happen, but then laughs suddenly; a loud, abrasive sound that lasts only a second, but cuts into Harry all the same, “That’s rich coming from you! Can’t even take direction and you’re telling me I don’t know what I’m doing? Please.” 

Harry scoffs at that, and then frowns, frustrated; he’s already annoyed at himself for letting it get this far, but at the same time he can’t seem to stop, needs to get the last word in because that’s just what Louis does to him; drives him fucking _crazy._

He feels his cheeks heat up as he treads even nearer to Louis, only a step apart, now, close enough to catch Louis’ chest rising and falling hard and fast, how he’s not letting his heavy gaze stray from Harry’s own. 

He sees Louis’ Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows thickly, and it brings to mind vivid images which Harry really would appreciate not being there, at least not right now, anyway. 

Harry’s voice comes out low and warning, with just a hint of an edge to it, “Why don’t you come and show me, then, if you’re so bloody gifted at this?” 

Without a word, Louis takes the step towards him, and Harry moves back in tandem automatically, towards the shoot space, his lazy footsteps a skittish mess as he almost trips on a wire, and attempts to remember how to bloody walk, mind clouded with thoughts of intense blue eyes and a rough, commanding voice.

Harry lets out a breath once he gains some distance from Louis, eyes refocusing on his surroundings as he calms down a bit. It’s short lived, though, as only a second later, Louis’ tight grip comes to rest on Harry’s hips, his touch tangible through the thin shirt Harry’s wearing, squeezing just enough to immediately spark a flame of arousal in the pit of Harry’s stomach, cause a tiny gasp to slip out of his mouth in shock. 

His body tenses up, mind hyperfocused on the fingertips indenting into his skin, because it’s the first time Louis’ held Harry like this in years, and he hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t been expecting this response from himself. 

All at once, the sensation is full bodied and achingly familiar, yet somehow new and foreign, and Harry yearns for it, hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Louis’ touch until now.

Louis’ gaze darts up at the sound, from its’ previous place at Harry’s feet. His voice is softer than before, a hint of concern on his features as his eyes narrow and brows furrow, grip loosening considerably and Harry wishes it wouldn’t. 

“Y’alright?” he asks, voice a breathy whisper because anything louder isn’t necessary with how close they are, his hot hands ghosting over Harry’s hips, and Harry wants to lean into the touch so desperately, wants to feel the gentle pressure on the soft skin at his sides again, regrets making Louis think he didn’t like it when really it’s the exact opposite, despite everything.

“Yeah, fine,” Harry manages to choke out, voice tinny and unsteady as he stares down at Louis, who in the moment looks... so much like Harry remembers; that soft, concerned expression painted delicately onto his face, kind eyes searching, and it almost knocks the breath out of Harry all over again. He clears his throat, faintly, and tries another time, makes the tiniest little smirk materialise onto his lips, wants to appear calm even if he doesn’t feel it, “Just didn’t realise it’d be such a hands-on approach, ‘s’all.”

Louis just blinks at that, and doesn’t respond, instead places his hands back onto Harry’s hip, touch clearly intended to be much lighter this time, and Harry wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“Just, um, stand here. Like this,” Louis mumbles instead, voice slightly strained, as he manoeuvres Harry’s body and stance into his desired position, pushing on one of his hips to make him face sideways on to the camera, which is what Harry was _literally_ just doing, but anyway. Harry lets himself go limp and pliant, with no resistance to Louis’ hold. “There, just, uh. Just stay there. Don’t move.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” At this point, Harry’s not really sure if it was meant to be sarcastic or not, but regardless, that’s the way the words slip out of his mouth, silky and slow, and the fact that Louis seems to choose to ignore it is probably for the best. 

Harry does as he’s told, anyway, and Louis wastes no time because it’s mere seconds before he’s back behind the camera, leaving Harry to hold his position in the hopes that he’s finally meeting Louis’ ridiculous standards. 

It’s a few minutes before the crew materialise again, all slipping back into the room as Harry and Louis both stand in silence, the only sound in the studio belonging to the ceaseless clicking of the camera shutter as Louis takes shot after shot, none of which seem to satisfy him. There’s not even any music playing anymore, which just makes the quiet even more distinct.

It’s not long, maybe another hour or so, before Harry can hardly stand the harsh silence anymore, only a few short words exchanged here and there between them, directions that Harry doesn’t take and protests that Louis pretends not to hear. 

There’s also the wary expressions of the crew members from where they watch on, as if they’re waiting for either one of them to start an argument all over again. Harry doesn’t blame them, to be honest; the room feels heavy and the air is thick, and he hates this, can’t work like this at all. The increasingly frustrated look on Louis’ face and tiny sighs Harry hears over and over again as he studies each picture are no help, either.

“What, Louis?” He asks, voice curt and without even a hint of patience, “What is it?” 

Louis looks up from his camera screen, with that ever-present frown plastered onto his face, of course, “Nothin’, I just–” He huffs, and steps back slightly, rubs his eyes with this thumb and his forefinger as he takes a breath, “None of these are coming out right. I don’t know what you’re doing wrong–”

“What _I’m_ doing wrong? Why is it automatically me?” Harry quips, indignantly, crossing his arms defensively, feels his exasperation resurface effortlessly.

Louis gives him a challenging glare, eyes narrowed into slits and jaw working away tensely again, clenched tight, “Well it’s evidently not me, my camera’s workin’ fine.”

Harry scoffs. “You and I both know photography isn’t just about whether your bloody camera’s working, Louis. Come on. Stop being ridiculous.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise exaggeratedly, his lips curling up into a teasing grin, and it makes Harry’s skin prickle hotly with annoyance, “Oh, so _you’re_ the expert now? My mistake! The years you spent studying photography at university and then doing a masters degree at the Royal College of Art must’ve escaped me, Harry.”

The words are meant to be degrading and condescending, but Harry’s mind insists on tacking onto one part in particular. “You went to the Royal College of Art?” he asks Louis, whose half-smile transforms quickly into something resembling confusion, “When? You didn’t tell me that.”

Louis’ taut features relax just a bit, mouth gaping slightly at Harry’s words, “I– I didn’t– it doesn’t matter, Harry.” His jumbled speech comes out in a rush as he shakes his head, averting his gaze, and his cheeks flush, slightly, a dusting of pink on the tips of his cheekbones, “Let’s just get on with the shoot.”

Harry merely frowns back at him, though, because why wouldn’t Louis mention that before, when Harry had asked him about his career? It’s one of the most prestigious art schools in the U.K., not to mention it’s in London, too, and–

“Actually, I think it’s time for us to just call it a day.” 

Both and and Louis’ heads whip towards the voice, belonging to Paul, who’s stood watching on and making no attempt to cover up the fact that he’s completely fed up. _Fuck._

“No, Paul, look, I’m sorry. We can sort it out–” Harry tries, immediately berating himself for being so selfish, for wasting so much precious bloody time arguing with Louis when they should have been getting through the shoot.

Pauls holds his hands up in a protest, something abruptly conclusive about it that makes Harry realise there’s no point in arguing, “No, Harry, honestly. Think it’s the end of a long day, we should all just end early, before we end up killing each other,” and then he gives them a warning look, pointing his finger and gesturing between them, “You two in particular.”

Harry sighs, trying not to let his frustration show too obviously. “Fine, yeah. I understand.” He nods, voice small and dejected. He looks over at Louis, then, who unlike Harry, isn’t putting as much effort in to conceal his annoyed expression, although he doesn’t attempt to argue back, which is a first.

“Right, well,” Paul starts, raising his voice as he turns to face the rest of the room, and everyone else who’s waiting, “Guess that’s it for today then, folks! Remember you’ve got the next few days off because of scheduling and prior commitments from the team, so I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

It feels as though there’s a universal sigh of relief, because at his words, the room seems to open up, tension seeping slightly from it. Harry hates that he had been part of its cause, hates that he’s partly to blame for Paul having to end the day early, although Harry doesn’t doubt that Liam and the rest will probably secretly thank him for it. It’s unprofessional is the thing, and he’s never usually like this - so distracted and off his game. It’s unsettling, and there’s only one thing that Harry knows is to blame for it.

He watches as everyone files out of the room again, collecting their belongings from dressing rooms and corners of the vast studio until there’s only a few people left pottering about, murmuring to each other. 

Louis isn’t far from him, over by his equipment, packing it away roughly and carelessly, with a scowl on his face that makes Harry itch for another argument, because what right does he have to be pissed off? This is partly his fault, if not mainly; there’s absolutely no justification for him to be angry about this.

Harry waits until he knows that the last person has left before he opens his mouth, the quiet sound of the heavy door slowly falling shut the last noise in the room, until it’s silence once again. Not for long, though.

He strides towards Louis, until he’s less than an arm’s length away. Unavoidable.

“Well, that was a fucking disaster,” Harry asserts at an occupied Louis, who scoffs lowly at his accusatory words, still meticulously packing his lenses away in every single one of his absolutely ridiculous number of bags that he’d brought with him this morning.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, harshly, stilling his movements. His hand clutches tightly onto the strap of one of his cases, knuckles white with the grip. “Wonder whose fault that was?” 

Harry’s definitely pissed off now. “Oh come off it, Louis. Don’t stand there and try and put the entire blame on me, that’s ridiculous. If you would have just stopped being stubborn for one second–”

“Stubborn? I was doing my _job,_ Harry, a concept that clearly only one of us seems to be familiar with.” 

The heat in Harry’s stomach flares up, frustration coursing through his veins at speed, “What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean? I’m just as good at my job as you are at yours. All you have to do is click a fucking button, anyway.” 

Louis actually recoils at that, mouth twitching as he drops the case he’s holding, abandoning it on the floor beneath him, “And all you ‘av to do is stand there and look pretty, Harry.” His voice booms, echoes around them, exasperated and loud, “Not exactly the hardest bloody job in the world, is it? And yet you still managed to fuck it up today.”

Louis’ chest is heaving, and Harry feels himself short of breath too, his features tight and tense where he’s frowning deeply, trying his hardest not to partake in the screaming match that they’ve suddenly created. Louis’ eyes bore into his own where their glares have come to meet, his pupils blown and dark, challenging.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Harry hisses, after a moment, voice gruff and low and biting, as he turns away from Louis and towards his dressing room, beginning to strip his leather jacket off on the way, hoping to release some of the built up heat trapped inside, latching onto him.

He doesn’t hear a response, doesn’t hear anything, apart from the loud bang of the door as it slams open and then shut in a jarring movement as Harry bursts into the small room. His body feels like it’s buzzing, thrumming with adrenaline and anger, all melting together underneath the heat of his skin.

He’s wrestles the rest of the jacket off, finally, and then the shirt soon after, feeling the cool air of the room on his bare chest, feels where the sweat droplets dripping down his back have gone cold, and he’s thankful for it. He’s in the middle of stripping his his trousers off in a frustrated rush when the door opens once again, harsh and loud, halting him in his motions.

“Don’t just walk away from–” It’s Louis, frozen in the doorway, eyes shamelessly sweeping over Harry and his undressed state, and Harry can’t say it doesn’t affect him. “Shit, I– You could’ve told me you were practically naked.” 

After the initial shock, Harry registers Louis’ voice, how it came out all high and crackly and distracted, and he smirks at the sound, can’t help it.

He watches closely as Louis gulps, thickly, and focuses on the dip of Louis’ throat and the pink colour of his neck, watches intently as Louis’ hot gaze trails down the length of Harry’s barely clothed body. Harry’s searing skin prickles with goosebumps in the wake of it, chest heaving as he continues to get undressed, stepping out of the trousers slowly, almost too slow for it to not be intentional, testing Louis, eyes never straying from the pair in front of him.

Louis stays, unmoving, dark stare locked on Harry, bottom lip bitten between his teeth and he doesn’t say a word. Harry stands to his full height, and steps closer to him, before he pokes a thumb into the elastic of his briefs and pulls down minutely, the only garment left on him, and he doesn’t miss Louis’ eyes darting low to follow the movement.

_Fuck it._

“Well?” Harry asks, stepping dangerously closer, voice low and tempting and heavy with suggestion, throat dry and heart leaping and stomach clenching with the risk of this, “Are you just gonna stand there? Or are you gonna do something about it?”

There’s a ringing in Harry’s ears, and Louis’ breath audibly catches in his throat, and before Harry can say anything, before he can backpedal or regret his words, Louis’ lips are against his own, harsh and needy, and his hot hands are on Harry’s hotter skin, grasping at him desperately, fingertips pressing into his back, hard enough to bruise. Harry’s mind is reeling, he never thought this would happen, especially now, after all this time. He focuses on the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other, blindly reaches to the hem of Louis’ t-shirt to pull it up, needs skin-on-skin contact more than anything, can think of nothing else.

His fingers slip under the material, graze the smoothness of Louis’ hip, and then a pleased hum from the back of Louis’ throat spurs Harry on to gracelessly pull the item of clothing off of Louis, desperate to reveal the gilded golden skin underneath, just as gorgeous as Harry remembers. Their lips part with a loud, wet smack, their shared heavy breaths mingling between them as they keep touching, only losing contact for a second.

“Turned into a cocky little shit, haven’t you?” Louis’ words are a mumbled mess against Harry’s raw lips, rough and rushed into the hush of the room as his hands map over the slope of Harry’s back, up and down and all across, like he’s trying to relearn the feeling of it, or perhaps learn it for the first time.

Harry’s vision is blurry when his eyes flutter open to see Louis, face flushed and gaze a heavy blue, locked on Harry’s lips; so close, so touchable. 

His mind is hazy from the thrill of the moment, from the high it’s giving him, from the disbelief that this is real, and happening, _finally,_ but Harry manages to shrug and chuckle lowly in response, tone teasing and smug, despite the rapid beat of his heart against his ribcage that tells him he’s anything but as relaxed as he sounds. “You seem to enjoy it.” 

He hears Louis scoff, before their mouths connect once again, and Louis’ wastes no time before licking into Harry, his tongue hot and wet as it meets his own, his lips slippery and their kiss urgent and dirty and losing any sense of control.

They break apart again, both catching their breath against each other in the centre of the room, chest to chest, hands all over each other, Harry’s crotch pressed up against Louis’ with only a thin layer of material separating his thickening cock from the other man. 

“Just shut the fuck up for once, Jesus,” Louis mutters, smirk evident in his tone and fuck, Harry _needs_ him, needs to feel him. 

Harry huffs out a frustrated breath, although the tension between them is dissipating by the second, every touch a sweet release. He runs his hands over from Louis’ back, down his hot chest to the top of his jeans, forefingers hooking effortlessly into his belt loops, all the while keeping eye contact with Louis, looking for any signs of apprehension. 

Louis stares up at him, pupils blown and eyes glassy, bottom lip held between his teeth again, almost white with how hard he’s biting, and that’s enough for Harry to start unzipping Louis’ jeans, stripping them off him in mere seconds. 

Harry takes it in for a moment, the sight of Louis half naked in front of him, just as perfect as he’d always imagined. Then he leans down, to that spot on Louis’ neck he used to be so familiar with, breathes in the same scent he used to know so well, now mixed with the sharpness of sweat and musk. He bites down, before sucking on the spot hard, smoothing his tongue over and over the point of contact as he feels Louis keen under his mouth, throwing his head back to give Harry more access and lifting his hands from Harry’s waist to grasp onto his shoulders, his grip getting tighter and tighter the more Harry deepens his kiss. 

He ruts up against Louis hard and fast as he kisses messily down the column of his neck, can’t help it, needs some semblance of friction on his dick before the feeling of having Louis in his hold like this, and the soft whines escaping Louis’ throat become all too much for Harry handle. 

All of a sudden he feels Louis’ fingers slip under the elastic of his underwear, his soft hand wrapping firmly around Harry’s almost painfully throbbing cock, and Harry chokes on his breath, because it feels so fucking _good._

 _“Fuck,_ Lou,” Harry gasps, against Louis’ neck, body going limp against the other man as Louis tightens his hold, running his thumb roughly over the head of Harry’s cock before dragging his tight fist up and down the shaft of it, his hot, quick breath hitting Harry’s ear which does nothing to stop the violent shivers that overcome Harry with the sensation. 

Harry stays with his head buried into Louis’ neck, eyes screwed shut while he tries to dampen the pressure building up inside him for a little bit longer. He lets his own hand wander down Louis’ body, lets his fingertips graze the sensitive skin by his crotch, feeling Louis’ breath become more and more erratic as Harry’s teasing touch gets lower, before he finally abandons all pretences of patience and shoves his hand into Louis’ underwear, getting a tight grip on his hard cock and starting to work his hand up and down as fast as possible. 

Louis’ hand stills where he’s on Harry for a second, body trembling slightly and a tiny gasp escaping his lips before he’s pressing even closer to him, dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder and biting down gingerly on the skin there. Harry hisses at the sensation, the slight pain sparking more heat in the pit of his stomach, his cock getting harder under Louis’ touch. Harry speeds up his wrist action, lets the slick of Louis’ precome help the slide of his hand up and down his dick, feeling it thicken up under his fingers as the seconds blur by.

Harry’s chest heaves as the air seems to thin in the room, body draped over Louis, barely able to hold himself up anymore. Without looking Harry steps forward, Louis stepping back with him, still connected until they hit the far wall. Harry leans his arm against it, feels the cool brick under his hand where he brackets Louis in, hand still working harder and faster on Louis.

They stay in that position for a minute or so, Harry biting his lip hard as he whimpers under Louis’ grip, white hot heat blooming in the pit of his stomach and he feels himself getting closer and closer to the edge. One fist clenched against the wall, knuckles white, the other sliding tightly up and down Louis’ thick cock, wanting to make him feel as good as he can, because Harry doesn’t know how the fuck this happened, but he knows that if this is his only chance he gets to do anything like this with Louis, he wants to make it as memorable for him as it is for Harry.

Harry increases his pace as he feels like he’s mere moments away from coming, before Louis shudders suddenly beneath him, releasing a guttural moan next to Harry’s ear as his hot come shoots out and coats Harry’s fingers without warning. Louis’ cock begins to soften in his hand as he breathes heavily against Harry’s neck, gasping for air. 

Before Harry can process what’s happened, Louis tightens his grip, squeezing hard at the base of Harry’s cock, almost uncomfortably, but it’s just tight enough because not a second later Harry’s coming himself, biting that spot on Louis’ neck again, softly, his own groan deafening as pleasure overcomes him, endorphins coursing rapidly through his veins and all around his body; electric, almost. 

As he comes down from his high, his mind clears slowly but surely, and he starts to piece together the past series of events over the last few minutes. His hand is still wrapped around Louis’ now flaccid cock, his head is still pressed against Louis’ neck, his mouth still attached to the salty skin there, lips stuck to it. He slowly loosens his grasp, and Louis does the same, and Harry misses his touch immediately, feels a sense of want overcome him all over again. It’s pathetic, but at this point Harry doesn’t really have any shame left.

Harry lifts his head up, eyelids heavy and body exhausted where he continues to use the wall as support. The only sound in the room is them both breathing heavily, blood pumping vigorously through him, strong enough to make his ears ring, and finally his eyes start to refocus. He sees white strips of what must be his own come painting Louis’ flushed chest and stomach, and he runs a finger through it, absentmindedly, touching Louis to make sure this is real. His lazy gaze travels up, up, up, finally to Louis’ chin, then his lips, and finally those eyes. Louis’ staring at him, his eyes boring into Harry’s own, a dazed and confused expression over his face.

Louis clears his throat, standing up taller where his back is pressed against the wall still. He licks his lips before speaking, and that’s just not fair on Harry, really. His voice comes out lazy and slow, syruppy. “Well, that was–”

“Unexpected.” Harry finishes for him, still in disbelief that he just… that _they_ just… did that. With _Louis,_ of all people, the person who Harry’s sure he’s imagined this scenario with at least hundreds of times. Never imagined it in happening his fucking dressing room, though. Against a wall, no less, like a pair of bloody teenagers. 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes in agreement, eyebrows furrowed as if he still can’t believe it either. Harry steps back a bit, then, giving himself and Louis some much needed room from each other. 

Harry asesses himself, and he feels... relaxed. Completely relaxed. Any tension in his body has vanished, frustration at Louis and at the situation before completely gone. Perhaps this is exactly what needed to happen; Harry’s feeling better than he has done since first starting this job.

Louis laughs softly, then, as Harry watches him pull his pants up, and Harry smiles, too, an instinctive response although he doesn’t know what’s funny. The hostility between them from the argument mere moments ago seems to have disappeared entirely, and Harry’s grateful.

He locates a random top from his dressing chair and hands it to Louis to help him clean up, vaguely hoping it’s not an irreplaceable wardrobe piece for the shoot. That definitely wouldn’t go down well with Liam. 

“What?” Harry asks, as Louis takes it, voice almost a whisper in the quieter still of the room. 

Louis’ eyes come to meet his, more blue and alert than a few moments ago, and shimmering slightly, probably due to his blissful state, “Nothin’.” he mumbles, as he averts his attention to the rest of the room, already starting to locate his clothes, wiping his stomach sloppily before pulling on his discarded t-shirt from the floor, “Just a bit weird, innit? Me and you.” 

_Weird._ Harry doesn’t think he’d use that word to describe what just happened. _Fucking unreal_ would probably be a more apt assessment, but maybe that’s just him. The thought occurs to Harry, of what this now means for them, this line they’ve crossed. He doesn’t dwell on it.

Harry hums, pausing. “Yeah,” he agrees, as he himself starts to get dressed too, “Doesn’t have to mean anything, though. Obviously we just had to get it out of our systems.” 

It can’t mean anything, of course not. Harry won’t let it. Doesn’t need any more distractions. This is good, actually, now that he thinks about it. Now he can come to work with a clear mind, can stop getting distracted by the just the sight of Louis because it’s done now, the tension’s cleared; hopefully they can both calm down, Harry in particular.

Louis looks up from where he’s pulling on his jeans, eyes narrowed and a sly grin painted across his flushed lips, “Obviously.” 

Harry chuckles, as they both continue to get dressed in comfortable silence. Still the same Louis as before, can never take anything seriously. Harry would be lying if he said he hasn’t missed this, though. 

He slips his coat on by the door and opens it, and feels like he’s back in the real world now, like time had stopped in that room but now it’s started again. This feels surreal, almost, like he’s going to walk out of the room and then suddenly wake up from some very vivid and realistic dream. 

“Well. Guess I’ll see you in a few days, then,” Harry announces, grip on the door handle where he stands and watches as Louis gets his equipment together.

Louis doesn’t look up from his ministrations, but there’s a hint of mirth in his tone. It’s the same old Louis, finding amusement in anything Harry says regardless of how ordinary it actually is.

“Yeah. Guess you will.”

–


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i don't even know how to begin to apologise for how late this is idk if anyone's even reading this anymore but here's another chapter, i'm sorry i've been SO BUSY and if you've messaged / sent me asks on tumblr and i haven't responded that's why. anyways it's 3am this is half unedited bc my eyes are about to fall out of their sockets but nonetheless here u go hope u enjoy x

The next time it happens, it’s an accident. Sort of.

In Harry’s defence, he was definitely not aware that Louis was going to be at the event. Not that that would have changed his decision to go though, if he’s being honest. 

In hindsight, the fact that it was a charity gala celebrating London-based photographers and their work throughout the recent years should have been a rather large indication that there was a chance Louis would show up. Harry just didn’t think about it is the thing, but now he’s here, standing in an uncomfortable suit that some obscure designer had lended him to wear tonight, sipping a glass of expensive champagne and in the middle of making idle small talk with his ‘date’ for the evening, and he’s spotted Louis across the vast, dimly-lit room, through the mingling bodies, standing at the bar. Alone. 

“Harry? Are you even listening to me, mate? Didn’t come as your plus one as a favour for you to ignore me all evening, Christ.” 

Harry drags his eyes away from the familiar figure, refocuses on his friend standing in front of him and tries to relax his features. 

“Sorry, Niall, I just. Saw someone I know.” Harry finishes the last dregs of the drink in his glass, preparing himself for the inevitable interrogation. 

Niall twists round, painfully without tact, searching in the same direction that Harry’s gaze had just left. It’s a moment before Niall lights up, eyes wide and bright as he turns back to Harry, smiling mouth gaping slightly, “Is that…?”

“Yeah. That’s him. I, um, didn’t realise he’d be here.” Harry can’t stop staring, doesn’t know why, really, it’s not like he didn’t just see Louis earlier this week. Perhaps it’s the small fact that Louis’d had his hand wrapped around Harry’s throbbing cock less than two days ago, a sensation that Harry really can’t seem to stop his mind from wandering back to.

“H. Close your bloody mouth, I think you’re drooling.” Harry’s eyes dart back to Niall, who’s smirking at him, his voice loud and theatrical, and Harry feels his cheeks flush. 

“Shut up, Niall,” he rolls his eyes at his friend, berating him without any heat to his words, unable to help the reluctant smile that materialises. Niall is probably right, after all. 

Niall says something else, but Harry can’t quite hear him above the noise of the room, everyone around them already far past inebriated even just in the early half of the evening. 

“Sorry?” he asks, leaning closer to Niall. 

“I said, have you spoken to him about it yet?” The words sober Harry right up, his jovial mood smothered by a state of dread and anxiety. 

He sighs, tired of a conversation that he’s already had multiple times in the past week. “No, Niall. We haven’t talked about it. We probably never will. S’good to just leave it in the past, I guess. That’s what he wants, anyway.” 

Niall fixes him with a unimpressed frown, a look that Harry loathes getting from him. He stops a nearby waiter and gets a glass of whatever’s on the tray, not picky, just in dire need of more alcohol. 

“Harry. Come on. You can’t ignore it forever,” he argues, and he has a point, but also... Harry would just rather not get into it, not now that him and Louis finally seem to be getting on well. Even though Harry’s secretly desperate to talk about it, he wouldn’t want to bring it up, and run the risk of ruining things or starting an argument. “Wasn’t it the reason you guys–”

Harry doesn’t want to hear it anymore, wants to move swiftly on from the topic, before he gets too in depth. “Hey, did I mention that I slept with him?” 

He says it so casually and offhandedly, that Harry’s not surprised it takes Niall almost a full minute to react properly, once he’s finished choking on a mouthful of his whiskey sour. 

Niall gasps, loudly, _“Harry!_ What the fuck? When?! I–“ he shoves him roughly, and Harry cackles now, completely delighted at Niall’s reaction; exactly what he expected. “Why didn’t you tell me you utter twat!” 

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, dragging it out for as long as possible. He takes a sip of his recently procured drink, sucking noisily through the straw as he keeps Niall waiting. 

“Harry. Stop being a dick and just tell me for Christ’s sake.” Niall’s tone has gone into urgent territory, and Harry knows he’s mere minutes away from begging at this point. 

He leans in towards his friend conspiratorially, lowers his voice just enough to be heard above the din. “Just the other day, after the shoot. Happened in my dressing room, actually.” 

“Your– Your _dressing_ room?” Niall’s eyes widen and he leans closer, utterly enthralled, “Jesus. Remind me to never come and pay you a surprise visit at work.” 

Harry snorts, eyes once again travelling to the bar, only to notice that Louis’ no longer there. He tries to tamp down the unsettled feeling in his stomach at it. _Don’t be so ridiculous,_ he tells himself.

He looks back at Niall, and shakes his head. “Yeah, well. It was only a one time thing, so. I wouldn’t worry about that.” 

Niall frowns. “But, Harry… didn’t it– I mean, that’s a _big_ thing, especially because–”

“It meant nothing Niall,” Harry interrupts, trying not to sound too forceful, “There was just a buildup of tension, you could say. Just had to get it off our chests.” Harry flashes his friend an easy grin before focusing on his drink, and at that point, he’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to convince. 

Niall somehow doesn’t look so persuaded, but he nods anyway. “Whatever you say man. But I still think you should.” He leans down to catch Harry’s eye, “Talk about it, I mean.”

Harry smiles at him, grateful. “I’ll keep that in mind, Niall.” And he will, he’s not lying. He just doubts it’ll do anything other than stay there, amongst the depths of Harry’s inner-most thoughts. 

“Anyway, _he_ could be here tonight, you know.” Niall tells him, changing the subject. Harry’s lost.

He frowns at his friend. “Who?”

“Zayn, of course.” Niall almost sighs the words out, but still manages to exhibit a tone as if this was an entirely obvious fact. 

“Oh, yes, how silly of me,” Harry mutters, sarcasm just edging his words. Niall takes no notice. 

“He always used to take me to events like these. Always enjoyed them, as well. With him.”

Harry begins to make an attempt to offer some kind of comfort, but is interrupted before he gets the chance.

“Niall?” 

Someone’s approached them, smoky voice immediately perking Harry’s ears up, because maybe he’s heard it before? By the looks of Niall, his friend definitely has. Harry turns to face the stranger, and no, he doesn’t know him. Perhaps he’s a model, though - he definitely looks like one. 

Niall is uncomfortable, Harry can tell immediately, but he covers it up well. “Zayn, hi. How are you?”

Oh. _Zayn_. This must be the ex… thing. That must be why Harry recognises him, he must’ve seen a picture of him or something that Niall had shown him. Harry should have realised as soon as he saw the look on Niall’s face. 

“I’m, um. I’m okay, yeah. Just here with a friend, he’s being honoured tonight.” His voice has gone all small and resigned, and he looks nervous, the poor sod, smiling softly across at Niall. To be fair, Niall doesn’t look much better. 

“Yeah. Me, uh. Me too, actually.” Niall gestures to Harry, then, and the infamous Zayn turns to look at him finally. Instead of a smile, he gets an eyebrow raise; unimpressed and seeping with judgement. 

“Oh,” he starts, word dragging out. “I know you.”

Harry frowns, confused, because he sure as fuck doesn’t know this guy. Doesn’t know why he’s speaking like this either. He’s about to ask when someone else joins them.

“Harry?” 

_Louis_. Harry turns to face the direction of the voice, and, well. Louis looks practically _lethal,_ it’s sort of unfair. From up close like this, Harry can tell that his suit’s been tailored to nip at his trim waist, and his slim-fit dress trousers show off those legs marvelously. It’s double-breasted as well, perfect for Louis’ figure. Fucking stunning. 

“Louis. Hi,” Harry smiles at him, feeling his cheeks flush a little. It’s not like him to get like this; it’s common for him to run into people he’s casually slept and/or messed around with at events like these before, he’s used to it. (The industry’s a small world, after all). He’s got his polite, relaxed chat rehearsed for his past sexual partners down to a fine art. It’s a bit different with Louis, though, and Harry’s not exactly sure why. 

He notices that Louis’ hovering rather close to Zayn. Harry’s curious eyes flit between the two of them, “This your friend?”

Louis furrows his brows, “Yeah…” he says, voice a little higher than normal, “Have you two– Do you two know each other?” Louis gestures between the two of them, and Harry’s quick to inform him that he does not in fact know Zayn, despite him claiming to know Harry.

“No, I don’t,” he chances a look over at Niall, whose expression is a cross between nervous and delighted, and to Zayn, who’s fixing Harry with a very cool gaze. He looks back over to Louis, “They seem to be familiar, though.”

Louis nods, distracted. “Oh. Yeah.” 

There’s an awkward pause after this, and Harry can feel three sets of eyes on him. Usually he’d bask in the attention, but right now, even for him, it’s three too many. 

Harry clears his throat, and turns around abruptly to face his friend, gesturing absently, “Um, so Niall, this is my–” 

He stops. How would Harry even _begin_ to describe Louis? His ex best friend? Or rather, his current acquaintance? Whom he also happened to sleep with less than 72 hours ago?

“This is Louis.” Yeah. That’s safe.

Niall seems to have regained some bravado in the last few seconds, looking far too pleased for Harry’s liking at the introduction.

“ _Louis._ So great to finally meet you, man.” He starts, so enthusiastic and chirpy to the point where it almost makes Harry cringe, “This one here won’t _stop_ talking about you–”

Harry flushes, eyes immediately flicking towards Louis, who already has a grin on his face, “He’s lying, obviously. I never talk about you.”

Louis’ delighted smile remains, though, despite Harry’s attempts to salvage his dignity. He’s going to kill Niall. 

Before Harry can say another word, though, Zayn pipes up. “Niall, shall we go get a drink and sit down? Maybe catch up?” Zayn’s gaze flits between Harry and Louis, “It’s getting a little too crowded here.”

As they wander off, Harry takes a moment to look at the rather noticeable empty space surrounding them, everyone else who’d been in the room probably having taken their seats for dinner already.

He frowns and looks over at Louis, who still has a shit-eating grin on his face. “I don’t think your friend likes me.”

Louis’ lips twitch, and he averts his gaze slightly, fiddling with his drink. “Zayn? Nah, he’s, um, just… stand-offish.” Harry is hardly convinced, but he doesn’t get a chance to tell Louis that. “So anyway, what’s this about you telling Niall all about me, then?” 

Harry’s cheeks heat up, _again,_ and this… this nervous behaviour is so unlike him that he doesn’t quite know what to do. He attempts to steel himself, shoulders back and chest out, the image of confidence, even if he doesn’t feel it.

He sighs at Louis, perhaps a little over-dramatically, but to be fair, Harry’s an actor, so it’s expected. 

“I told you, he was lying,” he drawls, boredly, taking no notice of how clammy his hands are getting as he struggles to keep hold of his heavy glass. “I never talk about you.” 

Louis looks like he doesn’t believe him for a second. He moves closer to Harry, eyes narrowed and smile deadly, “Really? _Never?_ Not even to bitch about how hard I was to work with?” 

There’s a glimmer in his eyes when he says it, like he’s testing Harry. Harry can’t tell if this is a joke or a genuine question, and their sudden closeness is making it more and more difficult for Harry to order his thoughts well enough to decide.

“Nope. Never. Guess you weren’t that hard after all.” Harry’s voice is unconvincing, and he inwardly chastises himself at his utter lack of ability to sell a solid lie. He’s supposed to do it for a living, for Christ’s sake.

Louis says nothing, and instead steps closer, earning himself a confused look from Harry. It’s only when Louis leans his head up, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s shoulder, and his lips just brushing Harry’s ear, that Harry allows himself to react, his eyes fluttering shut and his breath catching at the sudden skin on skin contact; the only thing that he’d been thinking about for _days_.

“Oh, trust me Harry,” Louis whispers, low and teasing and utterly unfair, “I was very, _very_ hard. I thought you’d at least remember that part.”

Harry chokes on his breath, eyes shooting open. He didn’t– that _obviously_ wasn’t what he had meant when he had said–

Harry coughs, clearing his throat. “I–”

But Louis’ already detached himself, striding confidently in the now entirely vacant room towards the double doors leading to the main hall where the actual gala is being held. Harry assumes so, anyway. His attention on anything other than one person in particular has been pretty non-existent for the past half hour.

“See you inside,” Louis offers over his shoulder, and Harry can’t help but notice how his arse looks in those trousers, desperate to get his hands on it again. _Shit._ He shouldn’t be thinking like this, but how can he not when Louis behaves like _that?_

There’s the sound of a heavy door shutting, then, and just like that, Louis has disappeared, allowing Harry to finally take a much needed breath. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, alone in the empty room. It’s going to be a long night.

–

Harry wriggles in his uncomfortable seat, stomach rumbling due to the too-small portions from the dinner that was served at least an hour ago now, trying his very hardest to pay attention to whoever’s up onstage accepting some award, but to be honest, he’s bored. 

He attempts to glance subtly next to him at Niall, whose eyes are fixed across the room, quite intently, he notices. Harry follows his gaze, searching and scanning until he finds his target, which, really, he should have known. 

Niall’s eyes are locked on Zayn, or rather, the back of his head. Harry _still_ doesn’t know what really went down between them, or how their conversation earlier had gone. However, if Niall’s painfully obvious pining is any suggestion, Harry would guess it’s a bit undetermined.

Sounds familiar.

“Just go and bloody talk to him, Niall,” Harry whispers, leaning towards his friend while directing his gaze back to the stage, and keeping his voice low enough to be undetected amongst the speeches, “Honestly, it’s painful watching you.”

He hears Niall scoff, extremely _un_ subtly, his voice hardly hushed, “You’re one to talk, Harry! Fuckin’ hell. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” 

Suddenly the sound of applause starts up around them, and both of them quickly join in.

Harry raises his voice to be heard above the clapping, “Niall, you know how I feel about you using those weird old sayings on me. I don’t like it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject, H,” Niall counters, and _fuck,_ Harry almost forgets that Niall can almost always see right through him. 

“I’m not.” He is.

Niall ignores him, and leans closer, “How about this? I will if you will.”

Harry sighs, because he knows this just isn’t an option, no matter how much he may want it to be. “It won’t happen, Niall, I told you. I tried. He doesn’t want to, wants to leave everything in the past. It doesn’t matter to him.” 

“Hey, you don’t know that, H. Maybe you should–”

Niall is cut off when the lights suddenly dim, and all attention is drawn to the main stage where a woman is standing, poised and ready at the microphone and seemingly waiting for the hall to quieten down. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she starts, voice deep and commanding. She sort of reminds Harry of an old headteacher he once had. “For the last presentation of the night, we are awarding a special honour to a photographer based in London who is under the age of thirty, and who has shown the most versatility and promise in their career so far. The prestigious award goes to someone who is not only committed to their work behind the lens, but also to their work with charities, such as our choice organisation, Flashes of Hope, which we are so lucky to work so closely with, year after year.

“The person who will be receiving this honour this year is, in my opinion, extremely overqualified for the award. Not only has he helped raise awareness of poverty in London through his well-known photojournalism series, ‘Street Stories’,”

 _Haven’t heard of it,_ Harry thinks to himself. _Shit._ He should probably look it up when he gets the chance.

“But he has also given countless children, who sadly suffer from cancer or other life-threatening diseases, the unique gift of experiencing their dream photoshoot, completely out of his own pocket.”

 _That’s extremely generous,_ Harry thinks. He knows how expensive photoshoots can be, and if this person is paying for not just one but multiple, that’s. That’s pretty fucking cool, actually. 

“In addition to all of this, earlier this year he was commissioned to go and do some work for the British Journal of Photography in Russia, capturing the protests in the aftermath of the horrific persecution of male members of the LGBTQ+ community in Chechnya. It was a piece which was I’m sure you’ll all agree was extremely powerful to read.”

Again, Harry has no recollection of seeing anything like that, but it sounds like something he should have read already. Everyone around him seems to know, though, as he makes a timid glance at the tables next to him to see that there are people nodding their heads, and even a rogue burst of applause here and there. 

“Finally, I’ve just been recently informed that he has been asked to photograph an entire spread in none other than the highly acclaimed Another Man Magazine, a piece which I’m sure we are all extremely excited to see the finished product of.”

Harry has to hold in a sudden gasp. _Hold on a second… What the fuck?_ _It can’t be–_

Harry turns to Niall, who’s already staring at him, mouth agape and eyes wide and looking the pure picture of surprise because _what?!_ Harry can’t believe it, he had no bloody idea that–

“So, it is with great pleasure and privilege, and absolutely no surprise, to award this honour to someone who’s work I personally admire greatly, and someone who I’m confident has a fantastic career ahead of them,”

The applause has already started, so Harry can’t quite hear as clearly as before, but he leans forward in his chair just to make sure that he catches–

“Mr. Louis Tomlinson everyone!”

A burst of cheer and deafening applause is all Harry hears, plus the pounding in his ears as his heart beats a million miles a minute, because this is all… it’s a lot, because he wasn’t expecting– he had no _idea_ Louis was so highly regarded, such a celebrity in the Photography world. Of course, Harry knew that Louis hadn’t done an editorial shoot before, but he sort of assumed that meant Louis was in experienced. Apparently not. 

Harry watches as Louis makes his way up onstage to collect his award, an assured air of confidence surrounding him, becoming more evident with every step he takes up to the podium. He wonders to himself, as Louis starts to give his thanks over the dimming applause, why Louis hadn’t said anything about this to Harry. Why he hadn’t told him about this massive honour that he was receiving tonight. It’s a big deal, obviously, and Harry had had no idea. 

But then again, Harry thinks, why would Louis tell him about it? They’re not exactly best friends anymore, nowhere near that. Harry doesn’t even know what they are, now, not after what happened at the studio a few days ago. And of course Louis wouldn’t just drop it into casual conversation, either, he’s too modest for that. Always been so modest. 

All Harry does know, is that when he finally focuses back up onstage, and watches as Louis gives his final few words - grinning from ear to ear and looking contagiously happy - Harry experiences an overwhelming feeling of pride for his old friend. Raw, almost suffocating pride.

–

“So, you never told me you were such a big shot photographer, Lou.”

It’s taken Harry at least 10 minutes to make his way through the wall of people surrounding Louis at his table, five of which were spent trying desperately not to let anyone’s drink spill on his extremely expensive borrowed suit. (Lindy would certainly not be happy about that). 

As soon as the awards had ended and the celebration part of the night had begun, Harry had quickly leapt up from his chair, quite pathetically, he’ll admit, desperate to find Louis and talk to him about the honour he’d received. Harry had just been slightly in shock, caught off guard and slightly embarrassed by the fact that he didn’t realise Louis was so bloody renowned and famous, especially considering that after that first day of finding out Louis was the photographer of his shoot, Harry had google right at his disposal, and didn’t even think to utilise it. 

So after divvying out a few elbows here and there to get through the crowd of people congratulating and, quite frankly, fawning all over Louis, he finally reaches him, and with a tap on his shoulder gives his greatest attempt at a casual remark about what’s just happened.

Louis spins round towards Harry, and, well. 

His face is all bright and flushed, Harry notices immediately, probably from the excitement of the atmosphere around him, but Harry can’t help but cast his mind back to one moment in particular that occured within the last couple of days, where Louis’ face was equally as red and hot, but due to a different source of excitement entirely. 

Harry clears his throat and attempts to do the same to his thoughts, tries to stop his mind from going too far back into detail about how fucking good Louis looked as they got each other off against the wall in the studio literal days ago. It’s a task that’s proving to be more and more difficult for Harry to carry out.

Louis fixes him with an analytical stare, eyes searching Harry’s own, squaring his shoulders as he faces Harry, “Well, you never asked, love.”

Harry hums. He’s got a point. “I suppose you’re right. Just caught me off-guard, seeing you up there, is all.”

Louis smiles, but it’s slightly menacing, like he’s caught Harry in an awkward position, “Why, were you that surprised that I got the award?”

Shit. “I– I mean, yes, but not in a bad way.” _Christ,_ Styles. “I mean, obviously you’re quite good–”

Louis’ brow furrows, a slight curve to his lips, still. _“Quite_ good? Jesus, Harry. Nothin’ but compliments from you tonight, obviously.”

“No! I didn’t–” Harry’s nervous, and frustrated, and why the fuck does he keep getting nervous? “It’s really cool, is what I’m trying to say,” Harry says in a rush, voice loud and desperate to just get it out before the hole he’s dug himself gets any deeper, “Really cool. And I– I’m, um. Just, congratulations, I suppose.”

Louis laughs at him, then, but it’s a pleasant sound; warm and familiar. Harry watches as his eyes crinkle ever so slightly, and his hand comes to rest on his stomach, the sign that it’s authentic. Harry’s relieved, can’t help but grin back at him, despite the fact that Louis has found obvious joy in making Harry squirm.

“Cheers, H,” Louis finally says, all breathy and light. It’s pretty, Harry notes. (It’s just an observation). 

Harry rolls his eyes at him, but it’s good-natured, unlike the previous times have been. “Well. You deserved it, obviously.” Harry’s stomach flips as he says it, unsure of how exactly to be this sincere, unsure of what’s okay and what’s not okay to say. 

He focuses on Louis, now, making sure he knows he means this, “You’ve really done some incredible things, Louis. It’s… It’s admirable.” Harry pauses. He doesn’t quite know where this has come from, but he also can’t stop himself from saying it. He’s also waiting for Louis to take in the compliment. Knows he’s usually quite self-deprecating in these types of situations. 

It’s similar to when Harry used to praise Louis on his photos back when they were kids, even when neither of them really knew what they were doing with a camera. Louis would always manage to take the most beautiful pictures, though, and Harry would always tell him so. Louis would never bask in it, however, always attributing the gorgeous way the polaroids - or later on, films - came out as something aided by the particular light, or the subject. He’d never ever fully claim the skills that he so obviously had, was always so stubborn about it. This had equally frustrated Harry and endeared him. Louis has always managed to do that, though. _Had._

Louis looks at him. Just looks at him. He wears an expression as though he’s slightly unsure. Like he’s contemplating something. Harry can dully hear the buzz of too-many people around him, jostling about and talking far too loudly, completely unaware of the still moment they’re at risk of interrupting. He still can’t take his eyes off the man in front of him.

Louis starts and then stops his next sentence. Harry raises an eyebrow, eyes locked with Louis’. Challenging him to disagree with his remark. 

A small, defeated smile appears on Louis’ lips, and he looks the image of acquiescence. He must know what Harry is thinking. “Thank you,” he utters finally, and simply, just above the noise. 

Harry nods, smug, and mirrors Louis’ smile as he takes a self-congratulatory sip of his drink. He won.

“I think I’m gonna go find Niall,” Harry tells Louis, because it feels like the next thing to say. Like the conversation is over. 

Louis nods, and then turns away, the moment gone already. One second with Harry, the next he's off, towards yet another person dying for his attention, to congratulate him, or even just to say a few words to him. It’s fascinating to watch for Harry, to see the world Louis is apart of. Harry supposes he himself is no better than all these other people, right now, at this minute, desperate for Louis Tomlinson to just look at them. He’s always been a bit like that, though, he supposes. And for some reason, Harry doesn’t seem to mind admitting this too much anymore.

–

It’s much later on in the night when Harry next sees Louis. 

He hadn’t been avoiding him, not strictly, anyway. Their last conversation just seemed to get a little intense, heavy, maybe, and Harry thought it might be a good idea to steer clear just for a little while to avoid another one of those chats. Probably best to keep it lighthearted from now on. 

Well, that, and the fact that Niall had drunk a little too much, even for his insane tolerance, and Harry had been slightly too worried to leave him alone for an extended period of time. 

It was when Zayn found them both, sat back on the table while all the others were deserted, far away from the bar and the party, Harry making sure Niall was drinking water and not falling asleep right there and then that he finally relinquished of looking-after-Niall duty. Zayn seemed quite up for the task, and Harry could hardly say no with the way those two looked at each other, even with Niall in that state. Despite Zayn’s obvious dislike for Harry, something that Harry still doesn’t quite understand, he promised Harry he would get Niall home safe, and Harry knew that if Louis was friends with him, then he must be a decent bloke, so he agreed. 

So it was after he found himself alone and without a drink, and not nearly drunk enough for this late in the night, that he made his way to the bar, squeezing and shimmying his way in until he found a sliver of space. After ordering an extra strong cocktail, (which Harry suspects is quite literally exactly the same thing as the normal one, just with an extra umbrella or two), Harry let his eyes survey the floor, searching for a particular silhouette amongst the crowd, one that he’d not been able to get out of his head all evening. It’s not long before he finds it.

He’s talking to someone, some older, rich-looking woman, a benefactor of one of the charities, Harry assumes. He’s sure she won’t mind if he interrupts them.

“Excuse me, sorry,” Harry announces bluntly to the pair of them, much to the shock of the lady and the pleasure of Louis, “I just have to borrow him very quickly,” Harry puts his hand on Louis’ arm, applying slight pressure as if to ask if this is okay. The way Louis leans into his touch almost immediately is enough of an answer for Harry.

The woman’s eyes go straight to their point of contact, and then back up to their faces that Harry’s assuming have trouble distinctly displayed on them. She gives them a stiff smile and nod, turning away swiftly and leaving them together, alone amongst the crowd. 

Harry snorts, “Who was she?” he asks a grinning Louis, “Seems a bit stuck up if you ask me.”

Louis shakes his head. “I dunno, honestly. She kept talking to me for so long that I forgot who she bloody was.” He laughs. Harry joins him, their slow laughter mingling lazily in the space between them, because it’s funny, everything’s funny. Perhaps Harry is more drunk than he thought.

It’s then that Harry leans down towards Louis’ ear, just enough that they’re faces are almost touching. It’s too warm in the hall already, and feeling Louis’ hot breath against his cheek is almost _unbearable,_ but he manages to continue.

“Well, I just came over to tell you that I couldn’t help but notice how sinfully fucking _tight_ those trousers look on you, could see them from across the room.” Yes, he’s definitely drunker than he thought. Somehow this felt inevitable, though. Harry leans back slightly, and smirks at Louis nonetheless, watching for his reaction. His eyes only seem to be able to focus on Louis’ lips; wet and pink and so very close to his own. “They’re quite distracting, did you know?”

Louis’ mouth curves into a smirk, and Harry’s gaze flickers up to catch his expression. His eyes are narrowed and playful, face flushed and then Harry feels Louis’ firm hand on his hip, gripping on tight, and it almost takes the breath out of him, partly because this is all he’d been thinking about for seventy-two hours and partly because he’s slightly concerned that just one person’s touch can have this much of an effect on him.

Louis pulls Harry towards him roughly, and Harry goes without question, shivering at the movement, so fucking overwhelmed by this already. Harry puts his hand over Louis’, while Louis’ eyes dip down to land directly and shamelessly on Harry’s aching crotch, a region of his body that Harry had been trying to avoid acknowledging until now. 

“Yes,” Louis answers simply, voice but a breath against Harry’s neck, just brushing below his ear, _“Quite_ distracting, apparently. For some more than others, I see.” 

Harry almost fucking melts. He doesn’t know if he’s embarrassed or turned on. Probably both.

He miraculously finds his voice to utter a few choice words to Louis, leans closer to make sure he hears every word. 

“You know, as much as I like the way those trousers look on,” Harry starts, slightly breathless but maintaining a teasing tone, “I’d much rather see how they look _off.”_

Louis chuckles lowly, his other hand coming to rest lazily just below Harry’s waist, aligning their hips painfully slowly so almost every part of them is touching, and practically giving Harry a fucking stroke at the same time. 

“Was wondering when you’d crack, Styles,” he whispers, hands squeezing Harry’s hips as he says it, voice rough like he’d already been fucked, and now Harry can hear the catch in his voice too, knows he’s just as affected by the thin layers of fabric separating their bodies from touching, skin on skin contact becoming not just a want but a raw _need._ “So, yours or mine?” 

–

As Harry’s eyes flutter open far too early the following morning, he’s greeted with various things. One is the pounding headache and dry throat, leading him to the conclusion that he’d drunk far more than he thought he had last night. The second is the sound of little Pippa scratching at his bedroom door, wanting to be let in, probably outraged that she had been shut out the night before. The third thing, which distracts Harry from the first and second, is the sight of Louis sleeping soundly next to him. 

He looks peaceful like this. Sweet, and delicate. Younger, almost. All curled up and tangled in the duvet, only half his face visible from how he’s laying. His bronze skin under the early morning sun peeking through the curtains looks smooth to the touch, but Harry doesn’t want to risk waking him. He could sit and admire him for a little while, though. Definitely could do that. 

Harry thinks about last night, remembers them giggling to each other as they got in, stumbling up the stairs like they were kids again, coming back from the local pub to one of their houses and trying not to wake either one of their families up, and usually failing. He remembers the sloppy, drunk blowjobs and even sloppier kisses, desperately getting each other off because it felt like they would explode if they didn’t. He remembers them falling asleep almost straight after, naked and hot and completely satisfied. He remembers more than he thought he would.

Suddenly a loud and yappy bark comes from the other side of the door, snapping Harry out of his thoughts, and he curses under his breath, trying his best to slip on some pants and get out of bed and to the door without waking Louis up, before–

“Harry?” 

Harry looks over, to find Louis facing up to him, eyes blinking open and shut and scanning his surroundings slightly. He yawns suddenly, loud and long, and Harry chuckles.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he tells him over his shoulder, and he makes his way to the bedroom door, opening it a crack to retrieve the yapping little puppy. “This one was getting a little bit impatient, apparently.” 

He walks back over to the bed with the dog cradled in his arms, tickling her tummy and giving her the much needed attention she deserves from having none from Harry practically all day and night yesterday. He almost doesn’t notice Louis sit up and turn to face him, watching him silently.

“What?” Harry asks, once he realises Louis had been observing him. He feels scrutinised under his gaze, which sounds ridiculous, but perhaps it has something to do with how he’s Harry’s photographer, and he’s used to it now. Perhaps. 

Louis smiles, a slow, sleepy one. “Nothin’” he answers, eyes remaining on Harry, voice tired and low, “Just sweet, isn’t she.” He gestures towards the puppy, who has completely melted into Harry’s arms. 

Harry hums. He’s not entirely convinced that was what was on Louis’ mind. 

Perhaps he should bring it up so that Louis doesn’t have to, make it clear that this meant nothing, like last time, just in case he’s worried that maybe Harry thinks differently. The last thing Harry wants to do is freak Louis out, or scare him off, because _fuck,_ would he like to do this again.

Harry places the dog onto the floor, turning to face Louis instead. “So, you know…” he starts, gaze slightly focused not on Louis’ but just above. He’s not sure why. “This doesn’t, um,” Harry shakes his head, and clears his throat, trying his best to remain cool, and finally forces himself to look at Louis in the eye, “This was just a bit of fun, yeah? Like, doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

The words feel harder to get out than usual, prickling at Harry ever so slightly, but Harry probably should have suspected that. They can only affect him, this whole situation can only affect him as much as he lets it, though. He must remember that.

Louis stares at him, brows furrowed as he listens, and then he takes a little while to respond. Perhaps Harry should have waited a little while after Louis had just woken up. At the same time, though, he needed to get this out there. Needed Louis to know it wasn’t a big deal, or anything. It’s what Harry’s good at, anyway. Casual sex. Meaningless flings. It comes with the territory; he could never have a normal relationship with his job, anyway. Could never make someone happy the way he’d want to, not if he has to travel all the time, and be away from them. So this sort of thing is what works for him, what has been working for him for these past few years. Hopefully the fact that these last few in particular have been with Louis of all people doesn’t change anything.

Finally, Louis blinks a few times, before responding to Harry, “Yeah, _obviously.”_ His tone is fairly neutral, but it’s still a relief to Harry, despite the loud and slightly harsh scoff that comes before his words that Harry tries his best to ignore, “‘Course it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Louis shrugs at him, features smooth and body still, eyelids heavy as he blinks languidly while keeping eye contact with Harry; the image of calm.

Good, Harry thinks. Good.

“Good.” He tells Louis, maintaining their gaze. This is all good. It doesn’t matter that Harry’s residual feelings might still be here, lurking somewhere within him. If they even still exist, that is. It doesn’t matter that there are questions that are still unanswered, either. Not right now, anyway. Harry really doesn’t allow himself to dwell, usually, either way. 

All Harry does know, is that if he couldn't have all of Louis before, all that time ago, at least he can have some of Louis now. And that’s got to be good enough for him. “Good.”

Louis flashes him a signature cheeky grin, easy and quick, a little energy sparking up in him now, it seems. “Good, well. Now that we’re all good,” he teases, and Harry feels himself crack a smile, tension in his back that he hadn’t even realised had been there relaxing, whole body leaning back against the headboard, anxiety fading in his stomach slowly, “I think it’s time we get ready for work, don’t you reckon?”

Harry groans, letting his head fall back against the wall, “Fuck, yeah, you’re right.” Harry sighs, blinks his eyes open to see Louis already up and getting into his clothes. “Forgot it was Thursday today,” he tacks on.

Louis looks up as he zips up his trousers from the night before. _Jesus,_ they should come with a warning label, Harry’s decided. Far too dangerous for people like Louis to be wearing them with no notice. 

“Staring at my arse again, Styles?” Harry hears, and his eyes shoot up to a grinning Louis, who has absolutely caught Harry in the act. Harry’s not even a little embarrassed. 

He chuckles. “D’ya really blame me, though? Honestly, if you wore those into work we’d get nothing done, I’m telling you,” Harry jokes as Louis cackles that signature cackle, although it is slightly the truth, “I told you they were distracting!”

Louis sits on the edge of the bed as he puts his socks on, almost fully dressed now. “Hm,” he starts, gaze directed down but Harry can immediately tell there’s definitely a smirk on that face of his, “I’m sure _something_ would get done…” he muses, matter-of-factly, “or you know, maybe just some _one.”_

Harry chucks a pillow at him. This just makes Louis laugh even more.

“You and your bloody sex jokes, Louis.” Harry rolls his eyes, and actually, this is so… nice. So fun, and relaxed, them just messing about together. Harry could get used to this. “Honestly, imagine what your mother would say.”

The mood in the room changes all of a sudden. There’s a pause, and Louis stills where he sits, focuses on the carpet instead of on Harry. There’s a silence between them for a little while. Harry wonders if it’s always going to be like this whenever he brings up their previous life, or makes any kind of reference to it. 

After a moment, Louis hums, quietly. “Yeah,” he says, finally lifting his gaze up to meet Harry’s. His eyes are level, and focused. “I wonder what she would say.” 

Harry’s not sure what Louis’ exactly referring to. He’s not sure if he’d like the answer, either way.

“Well,” Louis continues, getting up from his seat on the bed and immediately glossing over the odd moment they had just shared, “Guess I’ll see you later, then? We don’t start ‘til the afternoon, still got a few hours yet.”

Harry frowns. “What d’you mean? My driver will take us, just come into town with me.”

Lous fixes him with a look, slightly amused and slightly impatient, like he thinks Harry’s taking the piss. “Harry. Come on.”

“What?” Harry responds. He’s lost.

Louis slips his jacket on, still looking at Harry like what he’s thinking is entirely obvious. “Us,” he says, gesturing to the both of them, “arriving together,” Harry still doesn’t get it, “In your private car,” Harry’s frown just deepens, “me in last night’s clothes?” _Ah,_ Harry thinks, because it’s starting to click now. “Not exactly hard to add it up.”

Harry shrugs. “Just borrow some of my clothes, then.” 

Louis stops in his movements, like he’s considering it for a moment. He shakes his head, “Nah, I, um. I think I’d rather just get some stuff from home, thanks,” he says instead, slightly surprising Harry, “plus all my camera equipment is there, and that’s _sort of_ important.”

Harry smiles. “Sort of,” he echoes, mocking him good-naturedly.

“Yeah,” Louis answers, over his shoulder as he slips through the open door, “So I’ll just see you later, then.”

Harry watches him go, and starts to hear his footsteps trickle down the staircase, loudly and swiftly, his dress shoes from the night before tapping harshly on the wood.

Harry makes himself stay like that, just for a moment, before–

“Wait,” Harry gets up from the bed, ignoring the headrush to trail after Louis, unsure why he suddenly felt the desperate need to do this. He catches up to Louis, who’s already halfway to the front door, walking through the living room, “Let me drive you home.”

Louis grins, and gives Harry a very pantomimed once-over, “What, in your underwear?” Harry giggles at the way he says it, so overdramatic and incredulous. Louis shakes his head, probably thinking Harry’s absolutely mental, “Just go back to bed, Harry. I’ll take the tube.”

Harry still persists, and to be honest, he’s not quite sure why, “Are you sure–”

“Yes,” Louis tells him, as they wander towards the front door. “Thank you, though.” Louis says, sincerely, after Harry unlocks it for him. They look at each other a moment. Like the whole evening is hitting them both just now.

“I’ll see you later, then,” Harry finally mutters into the space between them. He’s fucking freezing standing at the door in just his pants, teeth chattering already, and honestly, why on _earth_ did he not think this through.

Louis nods, softly, slowly, and then leaves. Harry briskly shuts the door behind him. 

Good, Harry thinks again. This is all good. 

–


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!! i'm SO sorry this took so long, i got a new job and like, life got in the way etc etc, but here is another chapter for u all (whoever still reads this lol). i am hoping to finish this v soon, i know i've got a lot to write still but this was a section that was i realised i found pretty difficult to get past, and now that i've done it hopefully the rest will come easy.
> 
> this chap was originally supposed to be longer but then it got to 10k and i thought that was a good cut off point lol. 
> 
> i also listened to talia by king princess on repeat throughout the entirety of writing the majority of this chapter so like, if anything's a little overly sappy or angsty you know why.
> 
> um what else. oh yeah, it's literally 4am so if there are any spelling mistakes i apologise, i tried to fix most of them but i just know some would have slipped through the cracks and my extremely exhausted eyes.
> 
> anyway!!!!! with that all being said, enjoy the new chap! please leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it xxx

“Alright everyone, big, big day ahead of us! Thank you for all getting here and ready on time, especially considering how early it is, I really appreciate it. Now, the plan for today...”

Paul is stood on a table in the corner of the kitchen that they’re about to shoot in, giving everyone what Harry has come to understand is a daily motivational speech, or something. He’s not entirely listening, considering the fact that he’s been up for three hours already and he can see that the sun’s still not even fully risen through the frosty window just above the sink. 

They’re in some tiny house, in East London, somewhere, Harry’s almost sure. (He’d driven himself this morning, but he did only follow where the sat nav told him to go.) The interior of it seems to have been stuck in the seventies, and it’s as if no one’s really lived in it for a while, like it’s probably just used for shoots like this one, but Harry doesn’t mind it. Despite how cold he feels in his outfit (some printed trousers and a wooly jumper, which provides almost no warmth, although it’s appearance gave off the impression that it would. Harry feels slightly cheated), Harry feels positive about today, the shoot. Excited, even. And if that has anything to do with a certain blue-eyed photographer, well. Can Harry really be blamed? 

“At it again, is he?”

As if on cue, a warm hand comes to rest on Harry’s lower back, and he immediately leans into it, an automatic reaction, treasuring the heat it provides. It doesn’t take him long to work out who it belongs to, doesn’t think he’d ever mistake the feeling of Louis’ touch for anything else. 

Aware of Paul still going on about some rather less-than-exciting instructions for the team, Harry shifts his gaze to the right, just slightly, just enough to catch sight of Louis next to him. The other man is staring straight ahead, neither of them acknowledging their sudden closeness. Which, now that Harry’s thinking about it, is probably a little too risky considering their surroundings. Not that Harry’s complaining. 

He steps away nonetheless, despite himself, despite the loss of the heat on his lower back, five hot points of contact suddenly gone, worried that in the tight circle of the crew surrounding them there might be one eagle eyed member that witnesses something they shouldn’t.

Harry leans in back towards him, making sure his voice is hushed, unable to diffuse the amusement in his tone, “No distractions, please. This is a serious job, as you can tell by my attire.”

He less hears and more feels Louis chuckle next to him, after a pause, a warm puff of air hitting Harry’s cheek where he’s still leaned close to the photographer. A sudden shudder is sent down Harry’s spine that the temperature is _entirely_ to blame for, and absolutely nothing else.

“If we’re talking about distractions, Harry,” Louis whispers back, and Harry can already hear the smug edge to his voice, unmistakeable, “then perhaps you should stop freeballing in your trousers every day.” A hand on Harry’s hip, confident, punctuating every word just so, “It can really shift one’s focus onto much less savoury things.”

Harry stiffens, and tries to justify the fact that he’s started to break out in a cold sweat despite the arctic temperatures. He’s not very successful. 

“Right everyone, ready to get to work?” Harry’s solace comes in the form of Paul ending his little speech, to the relief of everyone else, too, Harry’s sure. 

“Harry, you ready?” he hears, and refocusses his eyes to see Paul looking right at him, expecting some kind of answer, and _oh crap so is everyone else,_ and this time he fully steps out of Louis’ space, as subtly as he can given his surroundings, putting as much distance between him and the other man’s hold as possible before anyone can clock quite why Harry seems to be so suddenly short of breath.

Harry clears his throat, willing any kind of blush that has materialised to go down and forcing himself not to focus on the way his hip is burning in the wake of Louis’ grip, forcing himself not to focus on why the fuck his body is betraying him like this.

“Yep,” he replies, disregarding the lower than usual tone to how early it still is in the morning, nodding in what he hopes is an eager fashion at his awaiting creative director, “as I’ll ever be.”

He turns to look back over at Louis after he says it, ready to give him some kind of semi-serious glare, but instead just catches his retreating figure moving through a doorway, probably on his way to set up the first shot, and he is _definitely_ doing that thing with his hips on purpose. _Bastard._ Harry will have to get even with him later on.

“Good! Fabulous, even!” Paul claps his hands, hopping gracelessly down from table that Harry thinks looks to be made of PVC that he’s commandeered, the sound too loud and abrasive for the tiny kitchen that’s still too crowded despite half the crew filing out already, “Off we go, then!” 

–

Less than ten minutes later, Louis’ lips are wrapped around Harry in some dark, ancient linen closet upstairs, and Harry attempting to keep his hushed whimpers down to a minimum isn’t the only hard thing they’re having to deal with.

He’s not quite in the right state of mind at this very moment to remember how it exactly happened, but he’s pretty sure it started with someone saying they was a delay with one of the pieces of lighting equipment being brought to set, and ended with Louis turning around in the middle of the room full of people and asking Harry, under his breath and with the most innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt look on his face that completely and utterly betrayed the tone of his question, whether he’d like _a quick blowjob upstairs while we wait?_

So that’s where they are now, Harry with one hand braced against the wall of the less than spacious cupboard of a room, and the other twisted in Louis’ hair at the nape of his neck as the photographer’s wet, hot mouth sucks him off to within an inch of his life. 

Harry thinks he may be dreaming.

 _“Fuuuuck,_ Lou,” Harry hisses, squeezing harshly where his hand is tangled in Louis’ hair, unable to contain himself after Louis starts lapping at the head of his cock; small, delicate hand working fast and hard up and down the length of him at the same time, with absolutely no regard to Harry’s mental or physical state whatsoever.

It’s not slow, or meant to be dragged out; it’s fast and hot and desperate, despite the casual build up to it, and Harry doesn’t think he’s going to last very long at all.

A low chuckle, or something akin to that, is the only sound Louis gives him in return from where he’s kneeling beneath him, and all it serves to do is send a shockwave through Harry, the vibrations from Louis’ throat almost too much for his sensitive and over-stimulated head. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, leans his head back heavily against the thin wall as he feels the familiar burn start to build up from deep in his core, tries to concentrate on the feeling of Louis’ heavy fingertips that have found their way under the heat of the jumper and back to his hip, gripping tightly, firmly, possessively. Tries not to think about how just that thought alone, just the thought of being _Louis’,_ could easily get him off in seconds in this state. 

Harry looks down, forces himself to, forces himself to watch Louis suck him off, can’t ignore the desperate need to savour every moment. Long eyelashes fan across the older boy’s cheekbones in the dim light, hollowed out from how tightly his mouth is stretched around Harry, tongue circling the end of Harry’s cock, head bobbing up and down quick and messily. Harry notices the slight furrow between his brows as he goes, eyes shut, too, and he looks almost reverent, like this, so deep in concentration on the task, on making Harry feel good. It makes Harry go all lightheaded, when he looks like this. 

It smells musty in the small space, and of sweat, and sex, and the potency of it all in such a tiny room is probably what gets Harry to come as quickly as he does, biting his lip hard so as not to fucking _scream_ and shooting hotly down Louis’ throat after the other boy’s determination to continue sucking him off right into the orgasm, lapping up every last silvery drop with a bright smirk on his stupid face that Harry finds so incredibly arousing he has to stop and remind himself where the fuck they are, and that a whole day of blowjobs would definitely be nice but they are technically both at work right now.

Harry shuts his eyes for a moment, still riding out the last waves of it, leans back against the wall as he tries to level his breathing out, completely and utterly undone. He tucks himself back into his trousers, and simultaneously hopes to every fashion god that they’re alright and won’t need to be, er, replaced. Or something like that. 

“Fuck,” he says, to the suddenly much more quiet room, unable to see Louis but he knows if he reached his hand out, just a little, he could touch him where he’s now standing opposite. 

Louis hums, amused, because of course he is. His voice has gone all gravelly, and tight, and Harry has to take extra special care not to focus on it too much, “Like that then, H?”

Harry doesn’t need to open his eyes to know the other boy has a massive fuck-off grin on his face. He’s also a bit too blissed out to care.

“You know I did.” he replies, matter-of-factly, all notions of witty responses or playing it cool out the metaphorical window for a moment while he still attempts to catch his breath.

Harry lets his eyes flutter open, drops his gaze down to where Louis’ standing against the door, arms crossed in apparent self-satisfaction. Harry can’t really argue with it. 

Louis unceremoniously pushes the door open with his hip, eyes never leaving Harry’s until the last moment when he turns around, and it takes rather a lot more energy than usual to follow the other man out, legs gone all heavy and unsteady. Harry chuckles at himself, at them, really, before realising that he should probably pull himself together before they get to the end of the hallway where the staircase is unless he wants everyone and their mother downstairs to know exactly what they’ve just been doing.

Harry stops in his tracks, halfway to the top of the stairs, and watches as Louis walks on ahead of him. It’s only a moment when Louis’ hand gets to the bannister and he looks behind him, fixes Harry with a puzzled look, mouth still curved upwards slightly from the smile that hadn’t fully faded. His cheeks are all flushed, pink and pretty, lips slightly swollen, too. 

God. 

Harry could _devour_ him. It takes all of his self-control not to sprint across the hallway and press them together, press their lips together, his desire to just taste himself on Louis’ tongue making itself extremely apparent.

Instead, Harry stands his ground, knows that there’s a laundry list of reasons why he can’t do exactly that. Knows that those reasons are why he has to do this instead.

“You go first,” he offers, then, voice light as he waves him off, hoping that’s enough explanation. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

There’s a minute change in Louis’ expression as the words seem to compute, Harry can’t quite put his finger on it. “Oh.” 

“Just, you know,” Harry starts, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t clear enough, “don’t want everyone downstairs–”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I get it,” Louis replies, words rushed out, voice a little off. He turns away then, before Harry can think too much of it, and makes his way down the stairs, back to Harry as he calls up, brisk and suddenly upbeat, “Don’t be too long, sunshine!”

The echo of Louis’ footsteps and the ringing in Harry’s ears are the only sounds Harry is accompanied by as he waits at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, any meaningful train of thought interrupted by the sounds of shuffling downstairs and the eventual “Where the fuck is Harry Styles?” that he’s pretty sure comes from Paul. 

He pauses for a moment halfway down, not exactly sure why, until he hears another person call out his name and all focus goes to making his way down and making himself known to everyone as quickly as possible without arousing any more suspicion than what he suspects is already about. 

–

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

Harry holds in a sigh and takes a moment, forcing himself to mull the decision over in his head for what feels like the hundredth time. He knows it seems like a big deal, but at the same time, he’s wanted to do it for ages, and he was going to have to do it at some point. Perhaps not this early, but why not. And if he knows it’s going to help a good cause, too, well. There’s really no question.

 _“Yes,”_ he responds, rolling his eyes goodnaturedly, “I promise.” He smiles openly up at Emily in the mirror, who currently looks like she’s been asked to perform brain surgery with absolutely no medical knowledge, and not the task that she’s actually been given, which is comparatively a much easier feat to complete. Harry could do it himself, even. But he probably shouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t turn out well. 

Emily raises her eyebrows like she doesn’t quite believe him, but she seems more relaxed now, which is definitely for the best. “Alright, well. Good.” She smiles bigger, then, and Harry can almost see the speed at which her thoughts move, “I think I’ve got an idea...”

And with some deft scissor work and about six inches of a braid later, Harry no longer has long hair. 

He can’t do much but stare at himself for a few minutes, grinning as he rakes his hands through his cropped strands and getting shocked every time the hair stops much sooner than it always has. He hadn’t cut it in years, never really used to get it trimmed, either, so suddenly having short, not curly hair, is, well. It’s definitely a change.

“‘S breezy,” he mumbles, and Emily chuckles next to him. Harry doesn’t miss the nervous edge to it. “I love it, though,” he turns away to look at her, reassuring the stylist that she’d done a good job, “Really, thank you.”

A proper laugh now, or perhaps it’s a sigh of relief, “Okay, good, thank god,” she responds, eyes on her handiwork, “I like the style on you, it makes you look so like–”

“Like Mick, right?” Harry queries, because that’s exactly what he’d thought when he saw it in the mirror for the first time. He’d been compared to the rockstar before, back when he was younger and mainly modelling, (and tried not to let it get to his head too much), but now he really can’t deny how the close cropped, side-swept fringe and soft little tufts around the nape of his neck distinctly seem to liken him to a younger version of the man. Harry loves it.

“Yes!” she trills, as she sprays something to keep it in place, “That’s exactly what I was going for!” 

Before Harry can spend more time exhibiting his usually well-controlled narcissism, the door to their makeshift hair and makeup slash dressing room is pushed open. 

“Hey, so they’re ready for you– Oh!” Harry turns to see who’s walked in, only to be faced with the rather amusing sight of a Liam Payne, who is currently speechless and gaping at the sight of Harry and his new hair. Ah, this is going to be fun.

Harry bites his lip to keep a laugh from slipping out, and smoothly gets up from his chair. “Y’alright, Liam?” he asks, voice brimming with amusement but at the same time faux concern. “Careful,” he moves past the boy and to the door, “you’ll catch flies like that!”

Harry giggles to himself as he leaves the stylists in the room together, one cackling while the other Harry can only imagine is just now asking questions.

So perhaps he probably shouldn’t have made such a snap, spontaneous decision about cutting off his long locks right there and then, but then again, he was always going to have to do it anyway. And maybe there’s the small element of his pleasure in shocking people, too. 

He makes his way towards the tiny kitchen where the first shot is, still grinning to himself. He goes through a door that opens up into a hallway that leads up to the kitchen, and then all eyes are on him, some immediately widening and some as though they can’t even tell a difference, which Harry respects because, honestly, it’s not really a big deal. As long as Paul doesn’t hate it, that is.

As he makes his way through he receives a few compliments here and there from crew members, which he gratefully accepts, and even Paul seems to like it. He gets directed to the final door, then, where he knows behind it lies all the camera equipment and Louis, having been told on his way that the tiny kitchen only having enough space for them both. 

He pauses for a second before going in, immediately sees that Louis’ back is to him, leaning over some screen. Harry decides to go and situate himself in front of the tripod that’s been set up, and tries not ignore how his palms have suddenly gone all clammy.

“Finally,” Harry hears, Louis’ voice directed at the ground where he’s still fiddling with something, “took you bloody long–”

Louis’ turned around, and immediately stopped what he was doing, speech and movement paused whilst he stares at Harry. Harry tries not to read into it too much.

(To say he was nervous about what the photographer would think wouldn’t exactly be a lie, however Harry would never admit to it if anyone asked.)

Neither of them say anything for a moment, until.

“Christ, Harry, you and your hair are gonna give me whiplash, I swear,” and it’s so deadpan and _ridiculous_ that Harry can’t help but cackle. 

“What on earth are you talking about, Louis?” Harry asks, chuckling, finally focusing on Louis’ expression. His features are warm, appreciative, his gaze trailing across Harry’s hair. Or lack thereof. The warmth that pools in Harry’s stomach at the man’s reaction is hard to ignore.

Louis smiles, eyes crinkling as he continues to stare at Harry, voice exaggerated and theatrical, “I mean that one second you’re rapunzel and the next you’re Mick Jagger’s long lost love child. It’s jarring, to say the least. Extremely inconvenient, actually, if you ask me–”

“So you like it, then?” Harry risks, wondering where this sudden confidence has come from.

Louis’ smile fades, just slightly, but his eyes seem to get impossibly brighter. He shrugs, averting his gaze, but Harry knows that trick, has used it way too many times. “S’alright, I suppose.” 

Harry grins at him. “I’ll take that.”

“Good, now, thank god _that’s_ over,” Louis jokes as he moves to pick up what looks like a film camera, tone light and playful and Harry thinks that this, _them,_ it really isn’t so bad. “Maybe now we can finally do some work, instead of making dramatic personal image changes?”

Harry snorts, “Shut up,” he jibes back, unable to stop the grin that formed about five minutes ago from leaving his face, “and just tell me where to go.”

“Well, In front of the lens would be a start _,_ ” Louis mocks, lifting the camera up so it’s pointed towards the countertop, testing out a shot. 

Harry rolls his eyes as he lifts himself up to sit up on it, right in front of Louis, “God, you’re insufferable,” he tells him, lips stretched wide directly betraying his words.

“Oh, the feeling’s definitely mutual, love,” Louis responds dryly, already clicking away at his camera, “now sit still and stop smiling.” There’s a slight pause where Harry attempts to do just that, trying his hardest to get into his usual zone. “Please,” Louis tacks on, just under his breath, and the tiny implorement does nothing to wipe the smile off Harry’s face.

Yeah, Harry thinks to himself, as he stares down the lens. Not bad at all.

–

“I can’t believe you listen to _Magic_ , Harold. Honestly.” 

Louis’ protests can just about be heard above the sound of Billy Joel’s crooning, and Harry’s torn between keeping his eyes locked on the road and his eagerness to glance over at what he just knows is a disgusted look on Louis’ face, even just for a second.

 _“Sing us a song, you're the piano man, sing us a song tonight!”_ Harry sings, loud and out of tune, leaning across the car towards Louis, as obnoxiously as possible, and absolutely basking in every second. “This is top quality music, Lou, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

He hears Louis let out a weary sigh as the song comes to a close, but the way his accent gets stronger and more pronounced tells Harry he’s just as amused, “Yeah, for someone who’s bloody fifty years of age! Jesus.” 

Harry does look over then, for a moment, and doesn’t miss the curve of Louis’ lips in his profile as he stares straight ahead, determinedly not meeting Harry’s gaze. 

Harry grins to himself as he looks back at the road, less traffic than he expected for rush hour. “Just admit that you actually love the music, Louis,” Harry beckons, relaxing into his seat, “this is a safe space.”

Louis groans next to him, good-natured and half-heartedly, “Oh, just shut up and stop torturing me, I’m begging you.”

Harry hums as he raises a brow, resolutely staring straight ahead, interest piqued on the word. “Begging?”

The radio and the low hum of the engine are the only sounds for a moment when Louis doesn’t immediately reply, and Harry wonders if perhaps that was a step too far for their light exchange of banter.

He almost says something to change the subject, move on from wherever the conversation had ended up, when he suddenly feels Louis’ hand snake onto his left leg, fingertips brushing up his inner thigh, with just the slightest amount of pressure that Harry’s satisfied grin drops and he momentarily forgets to breathe. 

He can hear the smugness in Louis’ low tone when he finally speaks up, facing towards Harry while his grip on Harry’s thigh tightens, and Harry’s grip on the steering wheel follows suit, knuckles white and tense.

“Just change the station, yeah?”

Wordlessly, Harry fumbles with the controls to switch the radio over, and he ends up just switching it off, eyes never leaving the road, and Louis’ eyes never leaving Harry. Suddenly it’s a little warm in the car, Harry’s breath running short, and Harry tries his hardest not to concentrate on how Louis’ hand still hasn’t vacated its point of contact. 

Louis chuckles lowly, “Thanks.” 

He squeezes Harry’s thigh as he speaks, delicate touch of his fingertips travelling further and further upwards until they’re right beneath Harry’s crotch. Perhaps Louis’ right, maybe he really, really does need to stop skipping out on wearing underwear every day.

They don’t speak for a little while, and Harry just about manages to keep his focus on following the sat nav home, and away from how Louis’ hand keeps tightening, how his fingertips keep brushing over more and more sensitive places, neither of them acknowledging it. It’s all fine, until Louis obviously decides to stop teasing and just goes for it, palming Harry firmly over his rather thin pair of trackies. 

The car lurches a bit when Harry’s foot slips off the pedal, and he releases a breath, shocking him a little. _“Louis–”_

“Hm?”

Harry can’t help but let out a shaky laugh at the feigned ignorance, as if the car didn’t just almost skid up the road due to Harry’s mind being elsewhere for a second, and as if that little mishap wasn’t _entirely_ Louis’ doing.

“I… Fuck,” Harry starts, trying his best to keep an eye out for the turning for Richmond and not on the feeling of Louis continuing to squeeze his hardening cock tightly through the thin fabric. “I need…”

“What do you need, Harry?” he hears, Louis’ voice almost imperceptible from how quiet it’s gotten, inquisitive and saccharine and his hand still a heavy weight on Harry’s crotch, leaving Harry little headspace to gather his thoughts.

His eyes stay facing forward as he finally sees the sign that reads _‘London Borough of Richmond Upon Thames’_ on the side of the road, almost speeding his way back home at this point. 

“I need you,” he admits, clearing his throat where it’s gotten a little dry, “right now, Louis.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before he pulls into his driveway, probably having committed at least three traffic violations to get them there in the short amount of time that he did. He puts the car in park and takes a breath, finally looking over at the man next to him.

Louis’ eyes have glazed over slightly, cheeks flushed and lips curved sweetly. If this is how Louis looks, Harry can’t imagine how he himself is looking right now, half undone and about to get himself off right there if Louis doesn’t finish what he started.

Finally Louis removes his hand from where it had been resting, causing Harry to hiss at the loss of contact, and the feeling of his dickhead brushing against the rough fabric. “Come on, then,” Louis announces, one hand already on the door handle, the sound of his tinny voice the only indicator that he’s just as turned on as Harry is. “I think I just about remember the way to your bedroom.”

And then Harry’s alone in the car, watching as Louis casually steps out of it and through the front door that Harry usually leaves unlocked, and it’s a second before he orders his thoughts enough to scramble out of the car himself, almost forgetting to lock it before he sprints inside the house and up the stairs to his room, where he knows Louis will be waiting. 

Harry’s mind is mush, all the blood gone from his brain and down to his crotch, and it would be embarrassing how quickly he makes his way into the room where he finds Louis laying nonchalantly across his bed, but he’s pretty certain that all sense of retaining any dignity today stopped when he got sucked off in a linen closet. 

“Fucking _hell,_ Lou,” Harry mumbles, as he shuts his door, footsteps messy as he makes his way to land on the bed, right on top of Louis. He stares at the man beneath him a moment, mind stuck on his primal desire to feel him, touch him, taste him in every way possible. “God,” Harry utters, as Louis stares right back, dark eyes and ghost of a smile giving nothing away. “Drive me fucking crazy.”

Harry leans down, then, starts sucking at Louis’ neck, just below his jaw where the skin is soft and sweet. He lets one hand hold him up, pressing into the silky sheets, while the other blindly starts rucking up Louis’ T-Shirt, hand searching up his hot skin until they find a nipple, hard and smooth under Harry’s fingers.

Louis’ hands come to clutch onto Harry’s waist, fingers digging deep into his skin just under his ribs, and Harry hopes they leave a mark for him to see tomorrow morning, evidence that what’s happening, that what’s about to happen isn’t just some insanely vivid figment of his imagination.

Because Harry knows where this is going. He knows he made it clear to Louis in the car that he _needs_ him, all of him, right now. Knows that they haven’t done this particular thing yet, and knows there’s no going back, but Harry can’t really find it in himself to go through the pros and the cons of properly having sex with Louis, his childhood best friend and not to mention fucking colleague, because now Louis’ hands are pulling at Harry’s top, and all he can think about is getting them both naked as quickly as possible. 

Harry detaches himself from Louis’ neck, sits up to take his shirt off, and Louis’ too. His breathing has gone fast and heavy with the anticipation of it all, chest heaving where he balances on his haunches. After successfully ridding them both of their top layers, Harry lays back down and starts working on his trackies, one hand pushing them down while the other keeps him balancing above Louis, the heat between their bare chests almost electric. 

And then Harry can’t help himself anymore, can’t stand staring at Louis’ plush lips, bitten and pink and all too inviting, has to feel them on his own, has to taste them. He closes the gap between them, just in his underwear now, Louis the same, leaning down so their mouths meet, followed shortly by the rest of their bodies. Harry can feel the pressure of Louis’ cock against his thigh, hard and solid, and he rubs against it slowly as he opens up Louis’ lips with his tongue, eager to hear the soft whimpers materialise once it starts affecting Louis. He spreads his legs so his knees bracket Louis’ hips, using one hand and then the other to grasp Louis’ wrists together and hold them above his head on the pillow. The sounds Louis makes beneath him are almost enough to make Harry come alone, but he can’t, wants, needs to drag it out for longer.

With a swipe of his tongue he stops the kiss, lifting his head just a little so he can gauge the expression that Louis wears beneath him. He grinds his hips down roughly one more time, just to see every single change in Louis’ features, the way his brows furrow and his lips clamp between his teeth, eyes glassy and pupils blown where he gazes up at Harry. 

Harry’s breath warms the air between them, “How does it feel to be on the receiving end of the teasing, Lou?” Harry whispers, words trickling out slow like honey. Harry grinds down again, and suddenly the two layers of thin fabric separating skin is too much, “How do _you_ like it?”

Louis’ lips part on a soft gasp, eyelids fluttering shut from the sensation. He takes a shallow breath, and then refocuses his stare onto Harry, jaw tight and eyes steely, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life. “Just fucking get in me, already, and stop fucking about.” 

And Harry, well. He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

There’s a blur of movement where they both strip the remainder of their restricting clothes off, and Harry’s mind goes to autopilot as he gets up to go and procure a condom and some lube, getting back to the bed to hover over Louis in about five seconds flat, which is definitely a new personal best.

Harry’s hand stills in the middle of slipping the condom on, brain suddenly clearing up and allowing him to think clearly, and his eyes move up to look at Louis, really studying him. 

“Are you sure you want–”

Louis groans, hands coming up to clutch onto Harry’s shoulders to pull him back down, “Yes, for fucks sake,” he responds, as he finishes what Harry started, cool hand on Harry’s length making him shiver, “Don’t make me beg again.”

Harry’s smirk at that is unavoidable, “I don’t know,” he tells Louis, as he grabs a pillow from above them and places it under the other man’s hips, “last time was pretty enjoyable.”

Louis says nothing in return, but the look on his face tells Harry he’s satisfied, and only slightly frustrated with how long this seems to be taking

Once Harry’s fingers are all slicked up, he places on hand on Louis’ left hip, thumb circling his pelvic bone for a moment reverently before he moves his other hand up. Harry lets his forefinger graze Louis’ entrance, glancing up to see Louis’ reaction before continuing. The other man has his head leaned back where he’s leaning on his elbows, chest rising and falling as he lets out heavy breaths. 

Finally, Harry pushes in, feels the walls around his finger tightening and loosening and Louis gets accustomed to him. 

He starts off slow, moving in and out leisurely until he feels the tightness around his finger slacken, slightly, and he decides to add another one. 

_“Fuck”,_ Louis hisses, just as Harry’s middle finger joins his first one inside him, and Harry’s head whips up to look at him.

“You alright? Is this okay?” Harry asks, immediately stilling his movements.

 _“Yes,_ christ, Harry, keep _going,”_ Louis growls, voice almost gone, and Harry smirks to himself as he speeds up his ministrations, scissoring his fingers in and out of Louis, brushing his prostate on almost every single stroke until the boy is audibly panting above him. 

“Okay, fucking hell, I’m ready, what’s taking you so long,” Louis scolds between breaths, and Harry chuckles at the familiar haughty tone, so classically _Louis_ that Harry almost lets himself think about the meaning of all this, the depth of it, until the sound of Louis whining impatiently beneath Harry knocks all sense out of him.

When Harry finally pushes inside Louis, for a second, everything goes black. 

It’s too much, and not enough, all at once, and Harry’s simultaneously overwhelmed and unsatisfied, needing to move to fucking _feel_ something more than heavy heat surrounding him, and wanting to stay like this for longer to savour every moment of this first time.

It’s not long before the set of both their shallow breaths start to mingle in the space between them, both on the edge of something, that Harry realises he has to start moving else they’ll both go insane. He looks down at Louis as he shifts his position, slowly pulling out before roughly snapping his hips back into position, the other man’s mouth slipping open as he releases a moan, eyes screwed shut and tips of his cheekbones flush with pleasure.

Harry moves his hips faster, high on the image of Louis beneath him, little breaths and bitten lip telling Harry all he needs to know about how good he’s making Louis feel. Harry drops his forehead down to lean against Louis’ shoulder, eyes slipping shut from exertion and pleasure, and he reaches down blindly to get Louis in his grip. Continuing to move hard and fast into Louis, feeling the way Louis’ thick walls tighten snugly around his cock, he starts stroking him, too, head leaking with precome that Harry rubs his thumb over lightly, teasing, and Louis’ whimper from the sensation is right next to Harry’s ear, soft and high and delicate, spurring Harry on even more.

It’s a few minutes until Harry starts to feel the familiar heat crackling in his veins, pit of his stomach a smouldering flame that only grows and grows. “I’m close,” he manages to choke out, hips working even faster as he pounds into Louis, friction from the movement almost too much in the moment, and Harry’s desperate to just come, but he needs Louis to come first. 

He twists his fist easily around the heavy weight in his hand, squeezing tight as he goes up and down fast and hard, and it’s not long before he hears Louis moan, feels the vibration of it against his cheek and feels the heat of Louis’ come spurting out against his stomach, trickling over his hand as he continues to pull him off, slowly but surely helping him through the orgasm. 

And then Louis’ lips are on the juncture Harry’s neck, sucking hungrily and dirtily and with absolutely no restraint, and that’s all it takes for Harry to finally let himself come, hips flailing as his head goes dizzy, vision fuzzy as he feels the sweet release of it all, the buildup from earlier finally dissipate, movements slowing until finally his eyes refocus and he slowly pulls out, flipping heavily over to lay next to Louis.

“Fuck.”

It’s the only word deemed worthy enough for the situation that they’ve found themselves in. It’s also the only word Harry’s fuzzy brain can come up with in the moment. 

Louis releases a deep breath next to him, chest falling out of the corner of Harry’s eye. “Yeah.” 

Harry lets his head fall softly to the side, lets himself just watch Louis breathe. It’s peaceful, and delicate, this moment just after. He’d like to stay like this for a while. 

Harry’s eyes begin to trail down the other man’s body, past his sweat-damp hair and glistening skin, down his tattooed arms and torso, past flushed chest and softening cock. Harry studies him, every inch of him. It’s the first time he’s ever had the chance to this, in a long time. 

And perhaps Harry’s brain is still all syrupy and slow from the comedown, or maybe he’s just curious to know more about this version of Louis, the one he’s still so unfamiliar with. It’s hard to tell, in the moment, but he says it all the same.

“You’ve got so many tattoos,” he points out, voice quiet and tentative in the still of the room. Harry lets his finger trace around the heart on Louis’ shoulder, just above the stag, leaving goosebumps on the hot skin in his wake. Those two are probably Harry’s favourite, he thinks to himself, now that he’s had a good moment to decide. 

Louis hums, and Harry can just about catch his lips curving slightly in the receding light of the room. “So do you.”

“You never told me you wanted any,” Harry whispers into the darkness, eyes still on Louis, eager to catch any minute change in his expression. He tacks on, “Before.”

There’s a pause, just like there always seems to be whenever Harry acknowledges their shared past. Harry wonders if the pauses getting shorter each time he brings it up is an actual thing that’s happening, or if it’s just wishful thinking. He’s not really in the right state of mind to decide on that right now.

“Changed my mind, I guess.” 

It’s non-committal, and vague, and Harry wants to know _more,_ wants to know exactly what made Louis change his stance on tattoos, and the meaning behind each one, when he got his first one, which one is his favourite. Harry wants to ask a thousand questions, like he always does. But he stops himself, like he always does. It may have been a while, but Harry can still easily pick up the signs of Louis not wanting to delve any further into a line of conversation. Knows about that all too well. 

They’re both silent for a minute, room darkening by the second, and Harry wonders absently if he should get up and switch on a lamp. His bones feel heavy when he tries to move, though, length of the day catching up to him. He knows though, that if he doesn’t get up now, he’ll be asleep in about five minutes.

He lifts himself up onto his elbow, slowly, lets his gaze drop onto Louis next to him. His eyes are blank, staring out towards the window where Harry had left the curtains half open this morning. He meets Harry’s stare, after a moment, eyes glazed and expression lax.

“Tea?”

It’s such a random thing to say, but at the same time, Harry had half expected it. Of course _Louis_ of all people would suggest a cuppa after they’ve fucked, and Harry can do nothing but let a half smile materialise on his face and nod once at the man still lying beneath him, turning away to hop off the bed, knowing Louis will follow soon after. 

–

“S’a massive house, H,” Louis breaks the silence, which isn’t awkward, or weighed down with something, just peaceful, actually. It’s a relief to Harry. 

Harry hums into his steaming mug, gaze stuck on the sight of Louis sitting opposite him. He’s curled up in Harry’s favourite armchair, the one his mum gave him from home when he bought the place, a little piece from his past that his mum, being his mum, knew he would appreciate. There’s nothing that particularly great about it, only that it’s old and worn and heavenly comfortable, and that in itself is what makes it special to Harry.

It seems only fitting, then, that that was the chair that Louis chose immediately after walking into the living room.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, after taking a tiny sip, gaze wandering around them at the walls of books next to them that Harry never has any time to read, at the large and grand crackling fireplace on the other wall that Harry still doesn’t quite know if he’s even lighting correctly. He takes in the vast expanse of the room, space that can sometimes feel like too much, makes him feel incredibly small. “Can get a bit lonely sometimes, actually.”

He doesn’t look at Louis when he says it, because frankly, he wasn’t quite sure what let the words slip through his lips. It was a thought, just to himself, but then he was forming the sentence before he could even really think about it. He avoids Louis’ eyeline, tries not to blush at how pathetic it sounds, how classically poor-little-rich-boy it must seem.

“Yeah,” Louis just offers in return, not a single ounce of judgement in his tone. “I can understand that.”

Harry does look over then, is met with the sight of Louis’ kind, careful eyes, his perfect lips pulled into a soft smile. Harry thinks he feels his heart flutter, then, and it’s so ridiculous and even more pathetic than what he’d just said, but he can’t help it. Can’t help the way he still feels about him, despite everything.

They hold each other’s gaze for another moment, the ticking of the grandfather clock located next to the fire the only sound around them. Harry looks at Louis and wonders how someone can look so open yet so guarded at the same time. 

Louis takes another sip of his tea, before leaning back in the chair, eyes attentive, suddenly, like he’s assessing Harry. Harry feels a little exposed like this, which isn’t exactly helped by the fact that he’s now in his pajamas.

“Still can’t get used to your hair.”

Harry looks up at him. “Oh,” he says, simply, running a hand through it instinctively. “Me neither, really.”

“I do like it, you know,” Louis tells him, voice low and sincere. “Really. Suits you.”

Harry looks away again, feels himself blush, helpless to stop it. “Thanks, Lou.”

The fire crackles as they sit in silence once more, atmosphere between them charged, ever so slightly, and Harry can’t quite put his finger on why. His answer, it turns out, comes in the form of a question.

“So, uh,” Louis starts, and Harry forces his eyes to refocus, concentrates on that same soft, barely-there voice. “What, like. Hm. I mean–”

“Yeah?” Harry urges, half sure he knows where this is going, but needing to hear the words.

Louis chuckles; nervously, for once, and seeing him like this is fascinating for Harry. “Like. What. What is this?” he finally asks, gesturing between the two of them with his hand holding the mug of tea. “What are we, like. Doing.” 

Harry must be giving him a puzzled look in return, or something akin to that, because Louis chooses to plough on. “I mean, like. This– us, I mean, it’s like. Happened a few times now, and like. I think we should just establish–”

Harry snaps out of whatever exhaustion-induced brain blockage he was experiencing to answer Louis, “Oh, um.” He clears his throat, forms an easy smile. “S’just a bit of fun, innit?” he says, cooly, just like he did before. “Doesn’t have to mean anything, right?” 

And it doesn’t, theoretically. Logically, Harry knows this.

The thing is, Harry also knows there’s no possibility of anything other than this casual route they’ve taken. He’s got their history as a pretty good example of why not, and he doesn’t need to force himself to revisit any part of it to remind himself. He just knows this is all it can be. All they can be. 

There’s other reasons too, of course. Like the Spielberg remake that Harry’s almost a shoe in to get, shooting in fuck knows where on the other side of the world as soon as he’s done with the Nolan film, making any kind of long term relationship pretty much impossible to maintain. 

Harry knows all of this, logically. It doesn’t make it any easier to say it all, though.

“Right, yeah,” Louis finally responds, voice duller than before, and perhaps it’s getting later than Harry thought. “Good. That’s just what I was thinking, even.” Louis offers him a small smile, words careful and succinct, “Wouldn’t want to mess anything up, between us, you know.”

“Exactly,” Harry responds, maintaining his own unbothered expression that only stings a little. “And, also, like, it’ll be convenient for us, I guess,” and then Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying, is no longer in control of the words that are forming on his lips, “throughout this job, I mean. Up until I leave for my next project.”

Louis’ expression had remained pretty impassive throughout, obscured mainly by the cup pressed to his lips, up until Harry’s last sentence. “Next project?” he asks, voice gone high all of a sudden. His eyes are quizzical, drawn in, and features slightly taught.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, thankful to be moving on to easier territory, “got this movie that Lindy claims I’m the first pick for, but, yeah. Hopefully,” he almost cringes as he says it, even though it’s true, because it sounds so wanky and self-assured, but he can’t help but feel a little pleased with himself, his career.

“Harry, that’s.” Louis starts, voice full of _something,_ Harry thinks it could be pride, “that’s great. Really great,” he adds, nodding solidly across at him. “It’s really, um. Really cool to see you, like, get so far. Honestly.” Louis looks down at his his lap, where his hands are cradling the now empty mug. “I’m really.” A pause, gaze staying down. “‘M really happy for you.”

The slow grin that forms on Harry’s face is almost cheek-splitting, because it’s something about hearing _Louis_ say the words, hear him acknowledge all Harry’s done for himself in the time they spent apart, it’s. It’s a lot, really, Harry can’t really describe it. Just knows it makes him extremely content.

The clock chimes twelve, loud and echoing in the heavy still of the room, and it pulls Harry out of his web of thoughts. He really hadn’t realised how late it had gotten, and is just about to ask Louis if he’d like to stay when he doesn’t even get the chance.

“So, better get going then, I suppose,” Louis announces, placing his mug on the coffee table between them and rising to his feet up from the armchair, all in such quick succession that Harry’s sleep-heavy eyes take a moment to catch up. 

Harry furrows his brow, unsure what he was expecting, “Ah. I see, I thought–” he stops himself, holding his tongue before he reveals too much of himself in his vulnerable state. “You’re welcome to stay here if you want. I mean, it’s quite late–”

“Nah, don’t worry about me,” Louis flashes Harry a smile, all teeth and gone in a second, “I’ll just grab a cab. I’ve got something to do tomorrow morning in the city, anyway.”

Harry is about to protest as he watches Louis disappear into the hallway the room over, leading to the front door, wondering why Louis seems to intent on leaving, before a lengthy yawn interrupts his thought process. It’s probably for the best, he thinks. Knows that he shouldn’t be overthinking things when it comes to Louis, not anymore. 

It’s not like there’s any reason for Louis to stay, anyway, as they’ve just established. Not like they can be anything more than what they are, what they’re doing, which is strictly sex, and nothing else. As they’ve just established. 

Maybe if Harry keeps telling himself that it’s all fine, that how he personally feels doesn’t matter, and that it’s all for the best, and the importance of his job, at some point he’ll start believing it. 

Harry sighs as he gets up and trails in Louis’ footsteps, meeting him where he’s sitting on the bench in the hallway, tying his trainers up.

It such a little thing, but it brings a soft smile to Harry’s face.

“Remember when you taught me how to tie my shoes?” he asks the top of Louis’ head, eyes still focused on his task. Harry’s voice sounds strange to his own ears, nostalgic and trickling with amusement at the memory. Louis’ hands still for a second, before continuing on. He doesn’t reply straight away.

He looks up, eyes glazed over, directed at something behind Harry, with a hint of a smile on his face that indicates that perhaps he’s remembering the same fond memory of Louis dedicating an entire afternoon to teaching Harry the bunny ear trick over and over again until he finally got it. “Yeah, I do.”

Their gaze meets, briefly, then, before Louis stands and moves towards the front door. He opens it, slowly, the old, heavy door protesting with a creak that will have definitely woken the dog up. “Well,” Louis turns, and suddenly he looks so tired, eyelids drooping and shoulders slack, and all Harry wants to do is gather him in his arms and tuck him up in his bed upstairs, no matter how fucking sappy it sounds, “see you in a few days, H.”

And with nothing more than a sleepy wave, Louis slips out the door and into the night.

There’s a moment where Harry senses that something isn’t quite right, but he snaps himself out of it almost immediately. He’s being ridiculous, he tells himself, needs to stop reading way too much into people. Louis _especially,_ he knows. 

So Harry takes himself to bed, and tries not to think about how, all things considered, it’s probably not the best great idea deciding to start having casual sex with someone he’s in love with. Then again, Harry never really was the best at making good decisions. He chose a career in one of the toughest industries, after all. 

It’ll all be fine, he tells himself as he drifts off. It’s just fun. That’s all it is. 

That’s all it can be.

–

Harry spots it the next morning, stuck at very back of an old photo album he comes across in his office that he’s yet to sort through, despite having lived at the house for more than a year already. 

The way it’s poking out from the page, just about visible when they book’s still shut, it’s almost… almost like it was waiting for Harry to find it. Which is a ridiculous thing to think, because it’s– it’s nothing, really, just a tiny memory from a lifetime ago. Nevertheless, Harry still slips it out from its hiding place. 

Harry doesn't know why he kept it. Knows it could have easily stayed at his mum's place, in his old room, in a desk drawer or a box somewhere. Could've. But didn't. Instead he kept it, took it with him wherever he went, whatever mediocre flat he ended up in, once his acting career really seemed like it was going somewhere. Kept it safe in his wallet while he was on the move, always checking twice, just to make sure it was still there. Still with him. It was always the first thing he unpacked, and the last thing to go, whenever he relocated over the last few years. Became a ritual of sorts, almost. Always the top and bottom of his list. First and last thought. Symbolic of something, maybe. Maybe not. 

It's just a silly photograph, after all. Just a picture of two young boys, almost unrecognisable from their older counterparts, laughing and lying in a field, someplace that Harry pretends he doesn't recall but really the location is etched into his memory with a sense of permanency that he doesn't question. That's what it is to anyone else, anyway. To Harry... well, to Harry, it's the last piece of Louis he could salvage before he left. The only bit of him he'd allowed himself to keep. 

At times it was the only shred of familiarity that he felt burning a hole into the pocket of his jeans while he was in a room full of people who were better-looking, better-prepared, better at reciting the lines in the particular and pedantic way that they're wanted. Just better than him. It was a comforting thing, despite the fact that it's just a five year old falling apart polaroid, drained of colour by age and the amount of times Harry's rubbed his thumb against it to somehow gain some sense of calm, or comfort. It helped, most of the time. 

Harry never wonders why a quick glance or a touch of an old picture of what feels like two strangers manages to always, every single time, garner the type of reaction from him that could rival a drug's effect. Never lets himself. He just continues to keep the photograph with him, as a good luck charm, a reminder of an old life and nothing more, and hopes that nobody notices. 

Harry stares at the picture in his palm, really studies it. The youthful, innocent grins on their faces, the way they’re looking at each other, utter bliss the only words fit to describe it. It brings up a certain yearning in Harry that he hasn’t felt for a while, as he remembers that day. Remembers how happy they were, how carefree. 

He remembers how it was that moment, that _very_ moment, the one they somehow, by some twisted miracle, managed to catch on film. The moment that Harry realised he was completely, and utterly, in love with his best friend.

It wasn’t a shock, really. More of a realisation. He was only sixteen, then, but he knew. He’d known for a while, just hadn’t put all the pieces together, not until that day. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been as happy as he was that day, in that moment. Doesn’t think anything could top that feeling, that feeling of understanding it all, of everything slotting together, of relating to every single love song every written, finally. The feeling of pure contentment. 

And then, of course, it all went to shit. But that part is almost easy to forget entirely, for Harry, when he looks at this picture. 

It’s then that Harry gets the call that his car to take him to another fitting is outside, and he’s shaken from the moment, from the memory. The rush from the room and through the house to the front door doesn’t stop him from slipping the picture into the breast pocket of his jacket. 

It doesn’t mean anything, after all.

–

There’s a few days where Harry seems to have a hundred and one meetings, before he finds himself on a plane to France, a rushed and frazzled call from Lindy the night before telling him that shooting of the World War Two Nolan film had been pushed forward by a couple of weeks, and then it all makes sense.

Thankfully, the magazine were understanding, as they already knew they were going to have to work between Harry’s commitment to the movie, which is great. What’s not great is that Harry didn’t really get the chance to tell all his friends in London that he, well, wouldn’t be there for the next week or so before he actually left. Which meant that Harry didn’t really get a chance to tell Louis, didn’t even get to see him before he left, which. It’s fine, he’s fine, it’s just an inconvenience, if anything. And it’s not like Harry has to be away from London for long, anyway, only in France for a week before he can go back for a bit in between his scenes being shot.

He just needs to pull himself together a bit. Maybe distract himself. 

As Harry reclines on the sofa in his trailer in a rare spare moment, and reaches for his phone, he realises he already going to fail at the second part. 

**Hi.**

Harry types it out, simple and to the point. He’s definitely not overthinking anything.

_hi_

The response comes quickly, which definitely doesn’t make Harry’s stomach tighten in anticipation like he’s sixteen years old again. Not at all. _God, he’s so pathetic._

**Miss your mouth. X**

(Harry just doesn’t care at this point, apparently.)

_Ha_

_Afternoon to u too H !_

(Harry chuckles lowly to himself. He should have known it wouldn’t have been easy.)

**Haha.**

**Sorry.**

_what u doin then ? Fluent in French yet ?_

(He’s barely been here five days, and Louis _knows_ this. Harry still can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face.)

**Not quite.**

**Just laying down.**

**Alone.**

_Sounds like riveting stuff ._

(Harry lets out a single cackle at the response, and immediately resents Louis for it.)

**Hm.**

**Sort of wish you were here, though.**

(Louis takes a little while to reply to that one.)

_yeah ?_

**Yeah. Thinking of all the things I’d do to you if you were.**

_like what_

(Harry’s thumbs hover over the screen, and he selects his next words carefully, sending them off quickly before he changes his mind.)

**Dunno. Guess you’ll have to get over here to find out.**

(It’s risky as fuck, Harry knows this. Except apparently he has absolutely no self-preservation left at this point, and to be honest, he’d really love a shag.)

_U bein serious ?_

**Told you I missed you.**

_Thought it was my mouth you missed ?_

Harry’s about to type a response, when another text comes through.

_i could be there tomorrow . theoretically_

Harry bites his lip, almost giddy with the thought of it.

**Someone’s a bit keen. X**

_says the person who just blatantly booty texted me ._

**I’m not ashamed of my needs, Louis.**

**Honestly though. You’d love it here. Weather’s stunning.**

_you’re taking the piss , the weathers supposed to be shite there ._

Ah. So he’s been doing his research, Harry thinks to himself.

**But you like the rain.**

**So you’ll come?**

_Well i bloody hope i’ll be coming if i’m travelling all the way to another country for sex . Jesus harold_

(Harry cackles loudly then. It’s hardly a good joke, but still, he does.)

**Haha. Very funny.**

**Send me your travel details when you have them.**

**Can’t wait to see you. X**

Harry locks his phone and just lays there, knowing that they’re probably going to call him for hair and makeup any minute now. It’s only when he catches himself in the mirror, smiling at absolutely nothing, that he decides to get up and out of his trailer, abandoning his phone on the countertop. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself, _it doesn't mean anything. It’s just the sex he misses. Nothing else._

Nevertheless, Harry needs to get focused. He’s sure they won’t mind him dropping in to the makeup truck to get all bloodied and battered up a few minutes early, anyway. 

–


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i know this is like, 4857895 years late, but an update is here!!!! i'm sorry to everyone i let down w this, i know so many of you were enjoying it and it took me so so so long to write, but i've been really really busy with work and preparing for uni and other stuff so yeah... major apologies! i believe this chapter is almost 9k, so it's alright, kinda wish it was longer but with the way i've planned this fic, it wouldn't work to add in anything else. 
> 
> ps apologies to fionn whitehead, he's used for about three seconds as a plot device and literally nothing else. sorry!
> 
> anyways hope whoever still reads this likes it, if you're reading this for the first time hi, i'm eden, i'm awful at updating regularly but i am going to try my best to finish this when i can. i really do want to complete this story for you all. 
> 
> okay, that's it! please enjoy and like and comment etc etc. byeeeeee x

“You cut your hair even more, H.”

It’s the first thing Louis says to him when they see each other. It’s rather unremarkable, as greetings go, but somehow it still makes Harry grin from ear to ear. 

Harry had come straight from set to get there in time for Louis’ arrival, was still in costume when he got back to the hotel which a) earned him a fair amount of puzzled looks and b) he’s not exactly sure if he was allowed to, but no one stopped him. 

Where they stand now - Harry changed into some trackies and an old, holey t-shirt, and Louis dressed almost the same, with a bag slung over one shoulder - Harry rakes a hand through his freshly cropped hair in the 1940s fashion, almost self-consciously, having completely forgot they’d trimmed it the day he’d got there.

“Yeah,” he agrees, combing a stray bit of fringe out of his face, “had to, for the film, you know.” 

Louis studies him for a moment, eyes calculating and lips pursed, ever so slightly. Harry realises this is becoming a bit of a thing, and he’s not quite sure yet if he loves it or hates it.

“You gonna stand outside my door all day, then?” Harry teases, and Louis’ gaze flickers back to him, focussed.

Louis giggles, bringing his free hand up to cover his mouth, and it’s such a familiar gesture that Harry gets this intense sensation of deja-vu, just for a second.

“Dunno, s’quite nice out here, actually,” Louis remarks, voice serious but really not, and gesturing around him as if it were anything more than a normal bloody hotel corridor, “airy, and there’s lots of paintings, too–”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry half laughs, half groans, giving in to Louis’ attempts at a joke, “just get in here before I lock you out, Jesus.”

Louis grins, and mumbles under his breath, Northern accent shining through, “touchy one today, aren’t you,” but all the same slips through the door and into the room, dumping his bag unceremoniously by the door. 

The heavy door falls shut on its own, silently, and then they’re facing each other, close, alone at last. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes, after a moment, at once more relaxed than he’s been the entire time he’s been in France, the realisation that Louis’ actually _here,_ that he’d travelled to another country - albeit, only a train journey away, but still - to see Harry fully hitting him. 

Louis gives him a small, sleepy smile, eyelids drooping slightly, lashes heavy. “Hi,” he murmurs, just as quiet. 

And Harry… Harry can’t help but just stares across at Louis, just for a moment, takes in the tiny gap separating them, and thinks about how much wants to kiss him, wants to touch him, claim him, how much he had missed him; far more than he’d ever admit. 

He knows he can’t, though. Not like this, anyway, not so casually, without ulterior motive. Not when it’s just because he wants to, rather than a build up to something else. Not when it would make how he feels much, _much_ too apparent. 

So instead, to stop himself from making that mistake, Harry breaks the silence, breaks the still moment between them. 

He steps past Louis, leans down to pick up his abandoned bag. It’s small, just a carry on. Not planning to stay for long, then. Not that Harry should mind either way. 

“Tired?” he teases, as he lifts it up, facing towards Louis once again. 

Louis looks in some kind of daze, blinking a little before he says anything, not answering immediately. “Uh, yeah, a little,” he chuckles, shyly, almost. It’s sweet. “Been up since early this morning, actually, didn’t really get much sleep on the train, either.”

Harry cocks his head with interest, as he moves past Louis to place his bag on a lone armchair next the window, the one Harry’s yet to use. He’s barely spent time in his hotel room, really, most of his day and night spent on set. 

“Oh, yeah? What were you doing this morning, then?”

Louis squints, eyes upwards, not on Harry, “uh, nothing important, really,” he dismisses, quickly, oddly. “Just some work… stuff.”

Harry frowns, but Louis misses it, suddenly interested in studying the French hotel’s carpeting. He hums back, unsure of what to say. Knows that when Louis takes that tone of voice he’s most likely going to be unwilling to elaborate. 

“Right,” Harry replies, simply, deciding to leave it at that. For now, anyway. “Well, I’ve just been called in to set for the night shoot this evening, actually,” he continues, shooting Louis an apologetic look and tone edging on guilty at the implication. He thought they’d have time, together, at least for tonight, anyway. Last minute scheduling changes seemed to insist on changing that, though. 

“Oh,” comes Louis’ response, expression a little lost. He blinks, then throws a hand up, dismissive, “uh, that’s fine, don’t worry about it–”

“I’m sorry,” Harry cuts in, leaning forward, slightly. “Didn’t mean to make you travel all this way just to, like, abandon you,” he chuckles, hoping to make the mood a little lighter. 

Louis gives him a small smile, then, features more relaxed. “It’s honestly _fine,_ H,” he stresses, and it makes Harry’s coil of unease unfurl, just a little, “besides, ‘m gonna be here for more than a night, anyway.”

It’s said so confidently, so surely, like it’s a given, a usual for them. Harry tries not to think about how much he wishes that was the case. 

“Oh yeah? How long you planning?” Harry teases, just because he can, edge of his lips raising with a hint of a smirk at Louis’ reassurance. Of course he wants Louis to stay for longer than a night; if he was being honest, Harry’d say he want him the whole week. Doesn’t mean he can’t try and make him squirm a little, though. 

Louis’ brow furrows, and his cheeks take on a bit of heat, but his mouth curves, ever so slightly. “Well, you talked a big game over text, Styles,” he notes, and now it’s Harry’s turn to blush, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Jesus, come all this way and get treated like this.” It’s said on a huff, and it’s so _very_ much like a younger Louis that Harry can see right through it, so it only serves to amuse him even more. Louis turns away, then, sighing theatrically, “may as well just leave right now, actually, if–”

Harry rolls his eyes, lets out a loud laugh at his– well. At Louis. “No, no, stop,” he drones through a smile, dragging out the words lazily, taking the two steps necessary to get to Louis, putting a hand tightly on his hip to turn him around, back to face him, “‘m only joking, Lou.”

Louis’ biting his lip where he’s now facing Harry, an attempt not to laugh, Harry knows. Harry squeezes Louis’ hip tighter, tugs him closer. He doesn’t miss Louis’ slow release of his bottom lip from between his teeth, mouth falling open, just a bit. 

They’re inches away again, and Harry should really stop doing this, stop getting himself into these situations where his self control seems to be stretched to its very end. 

Louis releases a short breath, then, warm against Harry’s mouth, and God, it really is quite tempting. 

“Good,” Louis responds, flatly, nodding once minutely, slight hint of amusement left in his voice. 

Harry chuckles, and lets go of the other man, choosing to stuff his hands in his pockets in order to stop them from roaming anywhere else. “So, you have two options.”

Louis’ eyebrow quirks in interest, lifting his head slightly as he stares across at Harry, eyes glinting. “Yeah? Go on, then.”

Harry releases a tiny snort through his nose, amused. Always amused by Louis. “Well,” he starts, shifting his weight from one foot to the other where he stands, “you could either nap here, and maybe if I’m back in time we could go for a late, like, _really_ late dinner,” he offers, and, alright, maybe Harry’s _subconsciously_ trying to make it sound as unappealing as possible. Only maybe, though. 

Louis crosses his arms, evidently not fully impressed by this option. Harry tries his hardest not to smile. “Or…?”

“Or…” Harry drawls, leaning back a little to look at Louis, eyes drifting down him momentarily, a mind of their own. His gaze comes back to meet Louis’ in time for him to continue, “you could come along with me, to set, and meet everyone, sit and watch while we shoot?” Louis already looks a little more convinced by this, and it does nothing to tamp down the pleased smile Harry’s trying ever so hard to stifle, “and then, if you get too tired, you could always go back and sleep in my extremely cosy and comfy trailer,” he adds, really laying it on thick, now. With the next sentence, Harry shrugs, trying his best to downplay the ball of anticipation sitting deep and heavy in his stomach, “and, you know, maybe if I get a spare moment or two, I could come find you, and we could, I dunno…”

Louis smirks, shaking at head at Harry and obviously catching on almost immediately. “Have some fun?”

Harry lets out a single cackle, completely unashamed, and slightly relieved at the reaction. “Exactly, Louis. See, I think we’ve figured out which option already. How easy was that?”

Louis rolls his eyes, but it’s good-natured; he’s obviously enjoying this as much as Harry. “You mean _you’ve_ figured it out,” he mutters playfully, under his breath but Harry just catches it. 

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t gonna pick it, Lou,” Harry berates, mockingly, while Louis averts his gaze, pink flush to the tips of his cheeks once again. 

Louis sighs, but it’s hollow, unbothered. “Yeah, yeah,” he admits, much to Harry’s delight, “whatever.”

Harry hears something along the lines of _what else am I gonna do, anyway_ come from Louis’ general direction, but he chooses to ignore it, instead directing his energy in locating his script, because, as he glances at the small clock by the bedside, his call time was approximately, er, about nine minutes ago. To be exact.

“Cool, well, come on, then,” Harry announces, finally finding the scraps of paper hidden under his pillow from where he’d been going over his lines to himself earlier. “Let’s go, car’s probably outside.”

Louis stares at him, a little surprised. “Wha– uh, now? Like right now?”

Harry nods absently, slipping his feet into some old trainers, never really bothering with what he wears to set, usually choosing comfort over style. “Yep, you ready?”

“Uh, I– I guess so, I’ve never been on a film set before, do I– should I bring anything? Can I take my phone? Is that allowed?”

Harry chuckles to himself at Louis’ sudden apprehensions, glances back to see him standing in the middle of the room, looking a little lost. 

Harry walks over, takes Louis’ hand before he thinks anything of it, tugging him towards the door. “‘S just like a photo shoot, Louis,” he assures him, thinking about it for a second, and then rethinking it. “Sort of. You’ll be fine, though.”

Louis follows, hand heavy in Harry’s own, and Harry tries not to relish in the feeling as they walk out of the room, tries not to think about how his younger self would react to this, holding Louis’ hand so simply, naturally, like it’s nothing. 

It’s for this reason that he reluctantly lets go, not even a minute later, as they walk down the hotel corridor. There’s no need, Harry tells himself, and he shouldn’t get too used to little, insignificant things like this, anyway. Knows that, before long, this… this _thing_ with Louis, whatever it is, will be over, anyway, in the grand scheme of things. 

As he presses the button for the lift, Harry looks across at Louis, who gives him a small, soft smile. He returns it, then faces forward again, ignoring the skin of his hand tingling from the touch, ignoring the way his chest tightens at just about any sight of Louis. 

_You shouldn’t get used to it_ , he tells himself, as they step into the waiting elevator, small space almost mocking Harry. He keeps his hands to himself, and doesn’t look over, forces himself not to. _You shouldn’t get used to it, that’s all._

Harry’ll just have to keep telling himself that, and he’ll be fine. He’ll have to be. 

–

“Harry, you’re here! Wonderful, wonderful, your call time to set has been shifted up, actually, so straight into hair and makeup when you’re ready, please. Oh, and you’ve brought a friend!”

Maggie, the ever-bubbly Cast PA, greets Harry and Louis immediately as they’re rushed out of the shiny black mercedes that had come to collect them, her voice as chirpy as plummy as it always is, despite the late hour. 

Harry gives her a grateful smile, as she ushers them towards his trailer. Doesn’t know what he’d do without her, really; she’s the reason he gets everywhere he’s meant to be, and on time, too. Well, usually anyway. 

Harry glances over to his side, relieved when he’s made sure Louis is still next to him, in amongst the bustle of base-camp where they’d been dropped off, production team members running about with last minute script changes sent over to them; cast and crew flittering manically between the abundance of trailers in the massive lot, some in costume and the rest dressed as though they’re preparing for the sixth ice age. 

He turns back towards Maggie, leaning closer as they walk through the lot, “yeah, Maggie, this is Louis,” Harry starts, eyes finding Louis’ for a second - alert, suddenly, probably after hearing his name, attention drawn from where it had been focussed on, well, everything else around them - before turning back, smiling at the thought of Louis being fascinated by his surroundings like this, “he’s visiting for a bit.”

“Oh, how lovely, Louis!” Maggie beams, as she yanks open the door to what Harry must assume is his trailer, considering the location team move them around almost every night so it’s hard to tell on his own whenever he comes back onto set where it is. “How long will you be with us for?” 

It’s an innocent question, of course, but that’s what makes the fact that when Harry looks over at Louis, he has a slightly panicked look on his face, like he’s completely lost the ability to speak momentarily, even more amusing. Oh, this’ll be good.

“Yeah,” Harry posits, faux-sincerity lacing his tone, taking far too much glee in putting Louis on the spot, “how long _are_ you staying, Lou?” he asks, face the picture of innocence, or so he hopes, anyway, but the look Louis gives him makes it clear he knows exactly what Harry’s doing. And yes, maybe putting Louis on the spot like this isn’t exactly fair, but it’s extremely entertaining, so Harry can’t really help himself. 

(Plus he sort of, maybe, does want to actually know how long Louis is staying. Purely for physical-related reasons only, of course.)

Louis’ eyes narrow at Harry, mouth a thin line, but there’s a glint to his expression that reassures Harry he’s not genuinely annoyed. “Uh, I don’t–” he stutters, voice gone slightly higher than usual, as he fixes his gaze back onto Maggie, who, probably, doesn’t even care for the answer, was just asking to be polite, Harry thinks. “Just, um, just a couple of days, I think.”

Maggie smiles at them all the same, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t already wandered off somewhere else to actually do something important, and not watch two idiots do… well, whatever it is that they’re doing. “Fabulous news,” she announces, and Harry chuckles, always put in a good mood by her over the top reactions to everything. “Come find me later on set and I’ll get you a set of headphones so you can watch him behind the camera!”

And with that, without even a chance for them to thank her, she’s off, and Harry and Louis are left alone, facing each other in front of his trailer. 

Louis leans against it, eyes surveying the lot in front of them, full of intrigue at his surroundings. “She was a lovely woman,” he muses, as Harry stands and watches him, amused at the serious, sort of distracted tone to his voice, “bit in your face, to be honest, but like. Nice. Very accomodating, don’t you– what?”

Louis’d cut himself off when he’d finally let his eyes circle back to meet Harry’s, and he’d noticed the look Harry’d been giving him; expression dripping with amusement, eyes shining and lips pulled up into a lazy smirk. “Couple of days, hey?”

It takes Louis a moment, but then he scoffs, and he’s lucky it’s rather dimly lit outside else Harry would definitely notice the blush that he’s almost sure is there. Louis doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes, and that Harry _does_ catch, from his vantage point less than a metre away. 

“Come on, then, you,” Harry brightly announces, then, springing up the steps into his trailer once he realises how much time he’s spent teasing Louis and how much time he _hasn’t_ spent getting into costume. Or hair. Or makeup. He’s keeping a lot of people waiting, now, and he needs to get a quick move on. 

Louis starts up the stairs after him a seconds later, and he’s halfway into changing when Louis steps inside, shutting the door behind him. He stills in his movements when he glances up at the other man, who’s stood there, leaning against the trailer door casually, arms crossed as he watches Harry undress, his turn to wear a smirk.

Harry dimples right back up at him, trying desperately not to think about what happened last time they were in this situation, and how much he wishes he could recreate it right now. 

“Oh, no, don’t let me stop you,” Louis suddenly insists, attempt at assurance betrayed by the little laugh that trickles through his words, “you just keep going, I’m good right here.”

Harry chuckles, and shakes his head, mildly, “Yeah,” he mutters back, as he continues to undress, and he tries not to focus on how much this small act of exhibitionism seems to be turning him on, “I _bet_ you are.”

His eyes stay focussed on his boots as he attempts to tie them in the way he’d been shown to on the first day, but he doesn’t miss Louis’ little snort from above him, smug and amused and all-too confident for Harry’s liking. 

He’s about to say so when there’s a loud noise that comes from the flimsy door to the trailer, before it bursts open, slamming against the wall. 

Harry’s head whips up at the sound, and he’s confused for a second before a familiar face appears at the entrance, grinning, and he should have guessed really; his guest always manages to have the most energy of them all on night shoots. 

“Harry! Head you were in tonight, how exciting. Think it’s just a few of us, was getting a bit bored before you–”

“Hi Fionn,” Harry manages to squeeze in, before his friend gets too carried away. “How’s it going, mate?”

Fionn, after standing at the door for a moment, seems to have actually looked around and realised it wasn’t just the two of them.

“I’m, uh. Great, thanks,” he says, stiltedly, tone a little curious, eyes with a slight glimmer to them, too, and Harry _knows_ what that means, “I’m so sorry, hadn’t realised I was _interrupting_ something–”

Harry’s quick to cut in, _again,_ “No, no, you’re not,” he tells him, rushedly, much to Fionn’s delight. He looks over at Louis who’s expression he can’t really determine; he’s not really looking at Harry, eyes locked on his co-star, “um, this is my– my friend, Louis, Fionn,” he settles on, unsure of what else to say, really. “He’s visiting for a few days.”

Fionn raises his eyebrows, lip curling ever so slightly as he leans further into the trailer. God, why does no one believe him when he says that? “Ah,” he drawls out, not completely convinced, “I see. Well, lovely to meet you, Louis,” Fionn directs his attention to Louis, who’s been pretty silent up until now, “excuse my surprise, it’s just that Harry never really mentions his friends, well, ever. I hadn’t realised you were coming.”

Louis then, after holding a rather blank expression for the most part, fixes Fionn with a saccharine smile, which is not entirely authentic, tilting his head slightly, “‘s’it a problem that I’m here, then?”

Harry thinks he feels all his blood rush to his head at the words. Because he _knows_ Louis, he knows when he’s being… difficult, or– or not rude exactly, but towing the very thin line between playfulness and cheek. 

Fionn, thankfully, doesn’t pick up on it, probably thinks he’s joking. Which, he supposes he is, but there’s a little heat to it that Harry can detect. “No, ‘course not!” Fionn dismisses, laughing lightly, “Nice to have you here, mate. Been getting bored of all these lot, be nice to have a new face.”

Louis, ever the hub of enthusiasm, just smiles flatly and says nothing. Harry wants to disappear. 

Fionn seems to accept it, though, or perhaps he’s just extremely polite. Either way, he nods at the both of them and greets them goodbye, citing a wardrobe malfunction that he needs to get fixed before going on set. Harry releases a sigh of relief when the door shuts.

Immediately, Louis takes a seat on the sofa, putting his feet up and picking up an old copy of Harry’s script and flicking through it, the epitome of avoidance.

Harry, now fully dressed, stands by the door, arms crossed and eyes locked on the other boy until he finally realises, and lifts his head up with a sigh, fixing him with a confused glare. 

“What?” he asks, all casually, almost annoyed. Harry wishes he didn’t find the sight of the length of his body lying lazily across his sofa so extremely inviting. 

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair and trying not to smile at Louis’ obvious evasion.

“What was that?” he asks, and the way Louis’ expression flickers is enough to let Harry know that Louis knows exactly what he’s talking about.

Instead, though, Louis ignores him entirely, shutting the script in his lap and turning to fully face Harry, inquisitive expression on his face. “Does he always just burst in when you’re changing like that? All...” Louis gestures vaguely for a moment, before, “unannounced?”

Harry blinks, confused. And then he can’t help the smirk, lets out an amused scoff at the words. “I– Would it be a problem? If he did?” Harry attempts to echo Louis’ words back at him, but Louis won’t play, feigning ignorance or _something,_ Harry’s still not fully sure.

Louis stares at him, not giving away a thing. “I dunno,” he shrugs, eyes drifting, “just think it’s a bit strange, but anyway.”

Harry steps a little closer, intrigued. “Anyway…?”

Louis glances up at him, again, impassive expression on his face. “Nothing.” 

Harry still has a small smile on his face, a little smug, shaking his head as he steps past Louis to the kitchenette part of his trailer. Harry leans into the fridge and finds a small bottle of water, going over the last moments in his head. He doesn’t fully _get_ Louis, sometimes, but that’s sort of what makes this whole arrangement exciting. Despite their past, it’s all still a little unpredictable, and he likes it like that; he never really knows what Louis’ll say next.

“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”

Harry almost spits out the mouthful of water he’s about to swallow, eyes bugging out and brows rising swiftly at the words he hears. Well, he thinks to himself, as he manages to finish his drink. Perhaps more than a _little_ unpredictable. 

Harry’s grateful his back is to Louis when he hears it, unsure if he’d have be able to hide his frankly stunned response from Louis had they been face to face. Something tells him perhaps Louis waited for a moment like this, but he’s not sure.

“Um,” Harry clears his throat, blinking once, and then slowly turning on his heel to face Louis again. He’s still got that poker face on, blank and unexpressive; Harry has no idea what he’s thinking, what sort of response he wants, or he’s expecting. “Are you?”

Louis’ snorts softly, eyes slightly lit up where he stares at Harry, and he crosses his arms, lazily. “I asked you first.” 

Harry can’t help but smile, half incredulous and half impressed; he’s got to admire Louis’ ruthless approach. It’s such a loaded question, though, and seemingly out of nowhere; Harry doesn’t really know what to say, whether to play it coy, or just tell him the truth. He’s also slightly wondering why on earth Louis wants to know, right here and right now of all places and times.

Harry takes a breath, shoving his hands in his pockets in a move to seem much more casual than he feels, and he steps a little closer, hoping to break whatever cool, relaxed exterior Louis’ managed to build up in a matter of seconds by closing their proximity, slightly. Louis shifts a little where he stands, eyes drifting down to Harry’s feet, moving closer, then back up, meeting Harry’s gaze once again. He swallows, as Harry steps forward, arms tightening against his chest a little. Harry smirks, satisfied.

“No, I’m not,” Harry admits, after a moment, hoping his expression supports his words. There’s no point in lying, really. He doesn’t lie to Louis, anyway. Hasn’t ever. “Happy?”

Louis’s expression flickers, and Harry thinks he sees a hint of a smile start to bloom, before Louis steps out of their little space, planting himself back on the sofa again, eyes on the discarded script. “That I’m not going to be getting any STDs from random little actors?” he posits, voice airy and haughty and annoyingly amusing to Harry, “yes. Very.” 

Harry scoffs, standing alone, now, grin creeping up on him at Louis’ words despite himself, because does this… is this relief? In some weird Louis way? He thinks it might be. “Well, you can rest easy, Lou,” he counters, playing along because he can’t really help it. “Why would I anyway?” he asks, then, a thoughtless addition as he checks the time on his phone, wondering if it’s nearly time they should be going. 

“Why would you what?” he hears Louis ask, tone careful, perhaps a little lost.

Harry glances up, but Louis’ not looking at him, still staring at the same page he was minutes ago. “Sleep with anyone else, I mean, considering we’ve got such an easy, casual thing going, you know,” he explains, and then he feels a vibration in his pocket, picks out his phone to see Lindy’s calling him. Ah. Maybe he’ll just let it ring. “You’re not, are you?”

Louis clears his throat, not replying straight away, and Harry stares at his phone, waiting for the call to end. It does, finally, but then it just starts ringing again. Harry sighs. He’s not in the mood for whatever sort of life lesson she’s got planned for right now, and he also sort of doesn’t want to risk her hearing Louis in the background just in case. There’ll only be questions, ones that he’s not prepared to answer, especially to his agent who he just _knows_ will have an opinion. 

Harry glances up once it stops again, looking for any signs of an answer from Louis, who hasn’t said anything. And Harry’s not _nervous_ that it’s taken the other man this long to confirm whether or not he’s slept with anyone else, it’s not like he has any control over it, anyway. They knew what this was when they started it, knew it was just casual. Doesn’t stop Harry from waiting with his breath in his throat, though, suddenly aware of the silence surrounding them.

“Have you, Lou?” 

The phone rings in his hand again after he says it, but Harry ignores it, wills silently for Louis to look at him, give an indication of what the answer could be.

“No,” Louis finally says, word succinct and sure. He turns his head, wide blue gaze meeting Harry’s, and it’s a little… bare, Harry notices, like he’s holding back. “No, I haven’t. I’m not. You’re right,” he then says, smile materialising, but it seems a little off, “why would I, when we’ve got this… thing going, like you said.”

Harry squints, unsure about Louis’ response. Something about it is odd, but he can’t put his finger on it, can’t understand what it is about it which unsettles him. “Right…” Harry agrees, timidly, “is everything–”

But before he can finish his sentence, there’s yet another knock at the door, sharp and loud.

“Hair and makeup please, Harry! We’re running a little behind, so as soon as you can!” comes a voice, that after a second he realises belongs to Maggie. Right, yes; he’s actually got somewhere to be. Rather important, really. He supposes the rest of this conversation with Louis will probably have to wait.

Harry’s eyes wander from the door to Louis, who looks a little too relieved for the interruption for Harry’s liking. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, neither straying, before Louis gets up, and steps towards him, closing the gap between them, smile growing minimally into something less unsure, more of a simper, like the last few minutes or so never even happened. 

Harry’s breathing suddenly gets a little erratic, and he’s admittedly a little unsure of what’s about to happen, knows he doesn’t have time right _now_ for–

The quick sound of a zip fastening is the only noise between them. Harry looks down; sees Louis’ hand on his belt, fingers on his costume, _just_ next to his crotch, naturally, fixing it. 

“There,” Louis utters, right next to Harry’s ear all breathy and soft, and _entirely_ unfair because Harry is literally about to go to work, now, and how’s he supposed to do that with Louis’ little raspy whisperings floating around his head? It’s a tough life. “Now you’re ready. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Harry hums, after a moment, unamused, stepping out of their space in order to clear his head, and also return to a regular breathing pattern. He moves towards the door, then, opening it, after making sure that he is, in fact, ready.

After walking down the few steps to the ground he glances back, sees Louis standing idly, looking unsure.

Harry lets an easy smile materialise onto his lips, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head up towards Louis as he asks, “Well? You coming or what?” 

Louis blinks, and then chuckles quietly, quickly following suit. He strolls down, taking his sweet time, (probably on purpose, just to wind Harry up,) and leans in once he reaches Harry, peculiar look on his face. 

“I’d love to,” he muses, lips curling ever so slightly. “That’s up to you later, though.”

Louis grins innocently at Harry as the words transpire, and as he chokes on a disbelieving laugh, because he was not expecting that, he steers them both towards hair and makeup before they can waste anymore time, and it makes one thing clear; it’s going to be a _painfully_ long night. 

–

So it turns out, for Harry anyway, that having sex in a hotel room shower looks a lot easier in the movies than it actually is in real life. (That’s not to say attempts were not made, however.)

 _“Fuck_ me, _couldn’t wait to get my fucking hands on you, Lou,” Harry grunts, hastily undressing his partner as soon as they’ve walked through the hotel room door at something close to four in the morning, a task that’s proving a little difficult when said partner is grinding up against him, hands squeezing his hips and lips peppering his neck distractingly, however Harry seems to manage somehow. “Was thinking about you the entire night, think I forgot my lines all because of you.”_

 _Louis chuckles against the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck, the warm breath on slick surface sending goosebumps around his entire body, chill running up his spine relentlessly. He begins undressing Harry, too, starting with his shirt and then moving to his trousers, and Harry is oh so thankful_ again _that he decided on trackies, it really makes this whole situation much more efficient._

 _In seconds they’re both naked, and Louis’ still got Harry pinned against the hotel room door, although now Harry can feel Louis’ hardened cock pressing against his groin, his own faring not much better, and he thinks if he doesn’t get inside Louis right the fuck_ now _then he might actually pass out._

_Harry lets out a choppy breath, eyes snapping shut and head hitting the door hard as soon as he feels Louis’ fist suddenly grip onto and tighten around his dick, already shifting up and down, no preamble to speak of. He tries not to concentrate too much on it, tries not to come in a matter of minutes because firstly, that would be embarrassing, but secondly, he wants to drag this out, make it last. He hasn’t seen Louis in a while, hasn’t slept with him in longer, wants to do this right, make it last as long as possible._

_Harry hisses at the build up of sensation, manages to find his voice after a few seconds, “hey, hey,” he gets out, words high and thin._

_Louis stops what he’s doing, voice a little heavy and out of breath, too, when he answers. “Everything alright?”_

_Harry lets a blissful smile erupt onto his face, just in case Louis thought he was making Harry feel anything less. “Perfect, Lou,” he utters, words slurred and mumbly, “was just thinkin’...”_

_Louis squints when Harry doesn’t finish, sentence said through a quizzical smile, “what?” he asks, squeezing Harry’s hips again._

_Harry’s breath catches at that, and he inhales, the sweet smell of sweat and sex filling already the space between them._

_“Did you, maybe,” he starts, eyelids heavy, implication weighted in his gaze where it meets Louis’, “want to take a shower with me?”_

So, considering the amount of energy that was needed for this particular activity, it’s no wonder Harry’s currently laying in bed, blissed out and lazy and on the edge of sleep, not even a bit concerned about the number of bruises that might bloom in the morning. Or, actually, - due to the fact that the sun’s already rising, trickling through the gaps in the curtains - in a matter of hours. 

Louis’ breathing softly just next to Harry, and Harry thinks he might even have dozed off already. It’s soothing, the sound; he hadn’t realised someone else’s breathing pattern could be even more relaxing than his own. Perhaps it’s the familiarity of it, of their time spent together, exactly like this, years ago. Perhaps it’s the silent gratitude that, somehow, after this while, they’ve managed to find their way right back to how it used to be. Even though Harry knows it’s not going to be forever, that this, that _them,_ together, won’t be for long, it’s… good. For right now.

A loud buzzing from the bedside table harshly interrupts his thoughts, and his eyes whip over to see his phone vibrating almost violently next to him. He sits up a bit and reaches out, blindly, after being stunned for a second, but as soon and he gets a hold of it, the noise stops. 

_“Shit,”_ he hisses to himself, glancing back quickly to check to see if Louis had stirred. He blinks a little, shifts his position slightly, but other than that, he seems to still be sleeping.

Harry looks at his screen, finally, sees a few missed calls from Lindy. Oops. Must’ve missed those earlier when he was… otherwise occupied. 

He’s about to return her calls, almost concerned at the early hour and number of calls he’s received, when a text - which is odd, Lindy almost never texts him - comes through from her, three words written in all capitals. 

**CHECK YOUR EMAIL!**

Well, Harry thinks, as he finally unlocks his phone, opening up (and refreshing) the mail app. That’s very much to the point. He wouldn’t expect much less, though.

He sighs as he waits for them to load, blinking a few times to get used to the harsh light of the screen, trying not to think about how he has to be up and ready in a matter of hours and he’s being forced to spend his precious time reading an email, of all things. Couldn’t this wait until later this morning?

After a moment, the phone buzzes in his hand again, and that’s when Harry sees it.

**Fwd: Untitled SS project, beginning January ‘19**

The subject line is enough to make his breath catch in his throat, because he hadn’t realised– he thought he wasn’t going to find out for _weeks,_ this is, it’s, he can’t even–

He reads it.

He reads it again.

And then once more, just to be sure.

And then Harry lets out a loud gasp, suddenly remembering to breathe, words blurring on the screen in front of him as the content of the email play over and over in his head, and he can’t _believe_ it, thinks it has to be a mistake, thinks that there’s no _way_ –

“Harry? What’s happened? Everything okay?”

Louis’ voice trickles in somehow, edge of concern to it that causes Harry to snap out of his dazed bubble, just for a bit, tear his eyes away from the screen to look over at him, let him know that _yes,_ everything is perfectly, wonderfully okay. 

He grins, feels his cheeks almost splitting from it, suddenly alert and awake and alive despite the young hour of the morning. “I’m shortlisted!” he exclaims, to a rather confused, sleepy looking Louis, “I’m– I could get it! It’s between me and one other guy, the– the massive project next year, I didn’t think– I mean, Lindy did _say_ , but I never thought…” Harry takes a breath, then, blinking a few times to let his mind rest for a second, whirring a bit too fast for this early he thinks. He looks down at the screen again, then back up at Louis, unfocussed and wired, voice a little quieter now it’s settled in, “I’m shortlisted, Lou.”

Louis stares at him. Brows furrowed, until they’re not, until he’s smiling, slowly, sleepily, heavy lashes blinking languidly across at Harry, “that’s great, H,” he tells him, voice a little quiet as he says it on a yawn, “really, good–”

“And if I get it, it’s shooting mostly in South Africa, isn’t that sick?” Harry’s eyes have gone back to the email, gaze flittering through all the information as quickly as possible, too excited and wired not to, needs to read every last thing. 

He’s hastily sending a sloppy, excited text back to Lindy, letting her know he’s seen it, when he realises Louis hasn’t said anything in a little while, hasn’t responded. He glances up, and Louis’... he’s got an odd look on his face where he sits, gaze a little unfocussed, faraway, past Harry, brows knitted tight together. Harry’s about to say something, about to ask him if he’s got a headache, maybe, perhaps because of lack of sleep, when Louis finally looks at him, his voice interrupting his thoughts.

“South Africa?”

The way he says it, it’s like he can’t believe it. And it’s not… it’s not excited, not really, not what Harry expected, and he tries not to let it bother him. More like confused, or caught off-guard. Harry gets it - it’s really early, to be fair, and this is a lot to take in all at once; he should’ve just let Louis sleep, told him later on when he’d woken up.

Harry nods, then, slowly, eager smile still plastered on his face. “Yeah, it’s… I’ve never been there before, it’s meant to be incredible. Beautiful landscapes, and like, there’s safaris and stuff like that, too.” _Maybe you could come and visit me out there, as well, like you’re visiting me here,_ is what Harry doesn’t say, what he stops himself from saying.

Louis nods, features still a little taught. He lays back down then, turns his head to the side. Harry can’t see his face anymore. “That’s quite far, H,” he mumbles, or that’s what it sounds like anyway; Harry can’t hear him as clearly as before. 

Harry releases a breath, thinking about it for a second. He supposes it is quite far, but he knows the time difference isn’t that bad, and when has having to travel ever stopped him before? This is his job, he’s got to take it. If he gets it, that is.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admits, sort of hoping Louis would be a little more enthusiastic than he is right now. He knows he’s probably tired, Harry is too, but, like, this is a massive deal for him. “But that’s–”

Louis clears his throat, shifting over so he’s on his back, eyes still not on Harry, “and some parts are quite dangerous, you know. You’d definitely need a guide to go everywhere, would be a bit of a hassle.”

Harry frowns. This is… odd. He’s never known Louis to be so negative like this before. Maybe it’s something he just hadn’t noticed, yet. He tries to keep his voice level, and low when he replies, “I mean I guess so, but I wouldn’t min–”

“I’ve heard some parts can get really rainy at points of the year, too, like flooding and that.”

Harry scoffs, sort of pissed off now. “Well now you’re just being ridiculous,” he clips, losing his patience, unsure why the hell Louis’ being this way, wondering if it would kill him to just say congratulations and move on.

“It’s true!” Louis claims, voice all raspy where he’s tried to raise it, tone thin, “look it up, honestly, Harry,” he says, and there’s an edge of amusement to his voice, but there’s something missing, something that puts a bit of a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth, like there’s a joke he’s not in on, “I _certainly_ wouldn’t lie about rainfall.” 

Harry frowns, confused about this sudden change of pace, confused as to why they’re talking about fucking _weather patterns_ for a country that Harry’s not even sure he’s going to yet. He squeezes his eyes shut, huffs out his breath harshly. 

He leans closer, Louis’ expression unreadable in the dim light. “Why’re you being like this?”

Louis finally looks at him, then, brows raised and mouth curved slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like…” Harry searches for a word to aptly describe his behavior. Petulant? Spoilt? Unhelpful, unenthusiastic? Every single one sounds like Harry’s making too big of a deal, like he’s being ridiculous. So instead, he leaves it. For now, anyway. He exhales frustratedly, laying down on his back again, eyes at the ceiling. It’s probably almost his call time, now, he wonders if he should even bother trying to get to sleep. “Nevermind.”

He hears Louis shift about next to him, then, feels his gaze on him, hot, and it makes him a little uncomfortable where he lays. He shuts his eyes, moves so he’s on his side, facing away from him. 

Louis sighs softly next to him, almost inaudible, before he seems to lay down, too. Harry thinks this might be it, that they’re just going to end the conversation like this, with this weird tension in the air, something unresolved. He supposes it wouldn’t be the first time. 

And then Harry feels a soft, warm hand on his shoulder, and his stiff muscles immediately relax under the touch, despite himself, his breaths evening almost automatically. Louis always knew how to calm him down, make him feel better with something as simple as this. 

“Haz…” Louis whispers, and Harry shuts his eyes, pulls his lip between his teeth to stop himself from saying anything, because it’s silly, it’s _so_ silly, but Louis hasn’t called Harry that since they were kids, and hearing it right now, so close, while they’re laying in bed together, uttered so softly, and sweetly under a breath like this, it’s… well, it’s a lot.

Harry hums shortly in response, unsure if he could say anything else, really, but also because the logical part of his brain reminds him he’s still a little annoyed. 

Louis leans forward, shifts closer to Harry so that he can feel his body heat next to him, and he tries not to think about how many times they’ve done this before, tries not think about how when they were kids, he never thought there would be an expiration date on little things like this. Now, as an adult, he knows there has to be. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, breath warming the back of Harry’s neck, and it takes everything in Harry not to shiver at it. “I know how important this is to you,” he sounds so serious, voice low and close, “I dunno why I–,” he stops, releasing a breath. Harry’s eyelids flutter shut. “It’s great news, Harry, honestly. Well done,” he takes another breath, a little ragged. His hand squeezes Harry’s shoulder gently when he says it, voice laced with sincerity, “I really… I really hope you get it.”

Harry can’t help it, then. He smiles, softly to himself, pleased at Louis’ apology, at his earnest words. He lifts up a hand, slowly, places it on top of Louis’, doesn’t think about it really. He squeezes, letting the other boy know he’s heard everything. “Thanks, Lou,” he breathes, just loud enough for Louis to hear him. 

Louis hums back, and they sit in comfortable silence for a little bit, words not needed. Harry would’ve probably gotten over it the next day, anyway, didn’t even think it was that obvious he was annoyed. He forgets, sometimes, that Louis’ known him for as long as he has. Of course he’d pick up on it. He always has.

Harry feels sleep’s tendrils grasping at him, after a little while, his heavy eyelids drooping shut as the seconds go by. He’s almost there when he feels Louis shift a little closer, finally closing the gap between them, their bodies lined up perfectly, like they used to. His reaction to the feeling is a sharp intake of breath, because he hadn’t realised how much he’d _yearned_ for exactly this feeling once again over the years, how many times he’d gone to sleep imagining Louis was wrapped around him, and now it’s here, it’s happening, and he almost can’t believe it.

“I– is this okay? Sorry, I can move, I just thought–”

Harry grasps onto Louis’ hand where he feels it lifting off his shoulder, not wanting anything other than to keep him here, exactly like this. “No,” he whispers hastily, before swallowing, throat dry. “Um, I mean,” he starts again, this time a little less urgent, “stay, please. I– I like it.”

Louis stills for a moment, almost unsure, and so Harry squeezes his hand again, as if to say _this is okay, I promise_. The action reminds Harry of something, something they used to do as kids. He can’t remember it now, though. 

After a little bit, Louis’ hand shifts under Harry’s grasp, and so he releases it, thinking Louis has changed his mind. Instead, Louis’ arm comes to rest across Harry’s chest, and he pulls Harry towards him, tight and secure against him. Harry’s entire body loosens, the familiar smell and touch and feeling of it overwhelming, and he’s glad they’re both already half asleep, glad his body is as exhausted as it is, else he doesn’t think he’d be able to be so relaxed, otherwise. Not with how much he’s wanted this, for so _long,_ how much he’d thought about it over the last few years. 

As they shift against each other, getting comfortable, Harry savours it, this moment, knows it’s special. They don’t say anything after that, don’t talk about what they’re doing, how… intimate it is. Harry tries not to think about whether or not they should be doing this, whether it might be a little too much. It’s selfish, and possibly a little thoughtless, considering their agreement, but Harry doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to, not right now.

Right now, Harry relishes in the feeling of Louis holding him. Knows it’s fleeting, that this isn’t something that will happen again and again. He’s not a kid anymore, he knows this, which is why he lets himself completely melt into it, fully appreciate it for all it’s worth. Their days and nights together are numbered, and Harry knows this, knew it from the start. 

As he lays there, heavy and safe and sleepy in Louis’ arms, content as he was at sixteen years old, Harry tries to push all thoughts out of his mind. Tries not to think about how this, how the two of them, together, isn’t forever, just for a little while. Tries not to think about how the very thought of that fact leaves a dull aching in his chest, each time greater than the last. And lastly, but not by any means least, he especially tries not to think about how it’ll feel once they have to part ways, once again. 

Knows that, if the first time wasn’t already bad enough, this time might just be what breaks him.

–


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!!!! can i just say one MILLION apologies for updating so bad, yes i know it's been a year since i started this, yes i know i told myself i'd finish it within a few months, ok but we ALL MAKE MISTAKES SOMETIMES!!!! anyway, as a token of my gratitude for anyone that reads this for waiting so long, here's an extra, extra, EXTRA (like 17k words) long chapter for you all. 
> 
> i'm sorry again!!!!!! i am a mess. 
> 
> x
> 
> (P.s have just looked over this and a lot of the formatting has gone to shite once I uploaded it so sorry about that!!!! Will fix it ASAP)

They find themselves in Holmes Chapel on a Sunday, early. 

As Harry watches the fairly familiar sights go by outside his window, he realises, with a pang of unexpected nostalgia deep in his chest, just how long it’s been since he’s actually been here. Since he’s visited. 

He supposes it’s because by the time he finally had the chance to come back, it was at that point that he’d believed he’s lost a reason. The reason. There was only one reason, really. His stomach twists as he attempts to push the pervasive thoughts away, again, not for the first time in the past few weeks. 

“S’changed a bit, hasn’t it?”

Harry glances over to his right at the sound, jogged out of his thoughts. Louis’ looking across at him, where he sits beside him in the backseat of the car, peculiar expression on his face. Lips drawn up in an almost-smile, eyes slightly narrowed. It unsettles Harry, the way he he can’t immediately read him anymore; read what he’s thinking, like this. 

Harry holds his gaze. “Hm,” he murmurs, lazily. He thinks about how as they’ve been driving through the village, it’s been almost like looking through a blurry screen. Like the outlines of everything seem the same, but when he looks closer, it’s all a little off. “A bit, yeah.”

Louis tips his head forward minutely when he speaks next. “When’s the last time you were here, then?” he asks, soft tone thinly veiling the playful accusation in his words. 

Harry makes a noncommittal sound in response, averting his gaze away from Louis’ questioning stare to look back out the window. He lifts up a hand and starts tracing idly on the condensation with his finger, drawing out the time before he replies. 

“This is the first time I’ve been back.”

The words come out croaky, and quiet, directed away from Louis; he’s not sure if the other man’s even heard him. He tries to ignore the traces of guilt he feels when he says it, but isn’t quite so successful. 

Louis releases a short breath next to him, like he expected as much. It’s not irritated, though, not like Harry had thought it would be. The guilt that had settled in Harry’s stomach dissipates just a little. 

“Why–“ Louis starts, then pauses, cutting himself off. His voice is smooth, inquiring, low in the back of the car where only they can hear. “How come, H? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Harry feels a little tension release from his shoulders, relieved that this hadn’t turned into some sort of guilt-trip-interrogation as he had expected. 

“I– I just,” Harry sighs, feeling a flush start to appear on his face, eyes still directed away from Louis. “I didn’t–“ he stops, not wanting to reveal too much. “It was just… difficult, I suppose,” is what Harry finally settles on. He still isn’t sure if it’s fully what he wants to say. 

There’s a little while where Louis doesn’t reply, and Harry doesn’t dare look across to gauge a reaction, doesn’t want to risk Louis seeing whatever’s written plainly across his face. Knows it’d be just as revealing as any words he’d say. 

He’d almost completely given up on a response of any kind, before he hears the faint squeak of leather, and then feels a tentative hand grasp his own; warm and comforting and so utterly familiar, and yet still a shock to his system. He responds to the sensation with a short, sharp intake of breath; he can’t help it, really, and then glances over to Louis a second later, surprised by the feeling. 

Louis’ already looking at him, eyes focused hard on Harry’s own, and he squeezes Harry’s hand once again before he speaks. 

“Well,” he utters, low and soft at the edges. “You’re here now, aren’t you?” His lips quirk up slightly at his next words. “I suppose that’s all that matters.”

Harry can only blink once, twice, and then nod slowly, smile materialising quietly. His next exhale feels suspiciously like a sigh of relief. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, squeezing back, once. “I suppose it does.”

–

_“Harry! Get up! You’re meant to be in goal!”_

_Louis’ less than patient plea comes from somewhere across the field from Harry, he’s not sure exactly where, though. Too busy slumped lazily on his side on the grassy pitch, idly making a daisy chain from any sparse flowers he can find. (He prefers this activity a lot more to playing football, but would never admit that to Louis)._

_He glances up, then, realising he should try and make it seem like he’s at least slightly interested. He spots Louis immediately, hands on his hips, chatting with the other boys who don’t look exactly happy at Harry’s choice to extract himself from the game. He offers them all a small grin, as he usually does. He’ll get away with it, he knows. (As he usually does)._

_Louis utters a few words before turning around, and then stalks over to Harry with what looks to be a hint of a reluctant smile on his face. Ha, Harry thinks. Every time._

_Harry gazes back down at his abandoned flower based jewellery just in time to catch the familiar pair of red and white football studs materialise in his line of sight._

_“Haz,” he hears, the amusement in the word poorly concealed. “What ya doin, love?”_

_Harry ignores the way his stomach flips as it always does at the word, hopes the flush on his face isn’t too prominent as he glances up to look at Louis._

_“Just making you a present, Blue,” he murmurs under a small smile, low enough so the other boys can’t catch it. “‘M nearly finished, actually.”_

_Louis does that thing, then, where he scrunches his nose up in an attempt to hide a grin, but that sort of thing doesn’t work on Harry; he knows him too well. Always has._

_”Well,” Louis announces, hands on his hips where he stays standing above Harry, pale eyes glinting in the early spring sunlight. “Think the game is over, now, so how’s about we go and get a cuppa on the way home?”_

____

____

_Harry grins and nods up at his best friend, the words he’s said exactly the ones he’d wanted to hear. Louis’d probably known that, though._

_Louis winks at him, reaches out a hand to help Harry to his feet. “Come on, Haz, you can finish that on the way over,” he says, referring to the daisy chain draped over Harry’s fingertips. “‘S getting a bit chilly, now.”_

_Harry accepts the help, and gets to his feet clumsily, overshooting it a bit. Louis’ ready for it, though, because he always is, because Harry’s still not used to his new gangly limbs that seem to have grown overnight as soon as he turned fourteen._

_Louis’ warm laugh goes straight into Harry’s ear where he’s caught him, loud and utterly giddy. “Woah, careful, sunshine, you’ll take me eye out next time!” he jokes, steadying Harry with hands that seem to radiate heat onto Harry’s arms, making him feel fizzy and tingly all over. If Harry could melt into this feeling, being held by Louis, he definitely would._

_Harry giggles, helplessly, righting himself and immediately making sure the daisy chain is unaffected. It’s a little squished, now, but still good enough. He knows Louis will appreciate it, anyway._

_(Harry once gave him an utterly unremarkable looking shell that he’d taken home specifically for Louis from a family holiday to the beach one summer, when he was about six; Louis still has it resting on his desk, unmoved, despite Harry’s insistence years later that it would be okay to throw away, now. “It was a gift,” he’d said, all stern and serious at Harry’s suggestion. “Why would I want to get rid of it?”. Harry thinks the first little part of him fell in love with Louis that day)._

_Harry finds Louis’ hand effortlessly, where it’s grasped onto his hip, still in an attempt to steady him. He lifts it up, holds it between them, only breaking the eye contact a moment later. Wordlessly, he laces his creation around the other boy’s wrist; it’s too short to be anything other than a bracelet, anyway._

_“There,” he whispers, glancing up just a little and catching Louis’ striking gaze immediately, their proximity allowing it. “All done.”_

_The moment is no more than half a minute, surely, but it feels longer. It always does, like this, Harry always seems to get lost in it._

_Louis grins at him, warm and crinkly, and Harry feels his insides twist, his breath catch._

_“I love it, Haz,” he tells him, voice croaky from exertion, smile outlining his words. “Thank you.”_

_Harry averts his eyes downwards, and he knows he blushes, then, but he doesn’t care. Could easily be from the cold._

_“Come on then, trouble,” Louis says, slightly louder than before, shifting a little out of Harry’s space. “Let’s go get warmed up, eh?”_

_Harry blinks, soft edges to his focus clearing up a little. Louis’ standing with an expectant expression, eyebrows raised as he waits for a response._

_He finally nods at his friend, smiling, and they start their small trip away from the field and towards the village. Harry spends the whole walk trying not to think about how he’d like Louis to be something more._

____

____

–

“Can’t believe it’s still here.”

They’d been wandering around town idly for a bit, thankfully undisturbed, although Harry had noticed a few phone camera flashes every now and then. Comes with the territory, though, so he can’t really complain. Harry had wanted to revisit some old places while he had the time to do so before they restart the shoot tomorrow, when they’d stumbled across what Harry would personally classify as no less than a relic. An antique of the eatery variety, if you will. 

Harry had been sure that Rosie’s cafe would have shut down by now; its namesake to whom the establishment belongs to had been vowing to retire for years before Harry had even left Holmes Chapel. Apparently not, though, because the old, rickety door with the peeling red paint is still very much open, and patrons still very much inside, probably enjoying a cuppa, or one of her famous pastries, the ones which Harry was never allowed to munch on (but still did), when he briefly worked here one summer. It’s exactly the same, really. Exactly how Harry had left it. 

“Rosie’s?” Harry hears, next to him, Louis’ voice a little lost to the brittle Northern wind that whips around them as they’ve paused on the pavement. Harry always forgets how much colder it is at home. 

Harry turns to Louis, then, and hums noncommittally in lieu of an actual response. The other man is already looking at him, lips curved into a open smile. His gaze is flickering about Harry’s face, like he’s trying to take it all in at once. He seems to do that a lot. Harry focuses on the pair of eyes in front of his own; blue blue as the sunlight hits them, and little watery from the weather, he’s guessing. Something jumps in Harry’s chest as they stand in silence like this, something eager and urgent. He looks away. 

Louis clears his throat, and they start strolling towards the cafe, an unspoken agreement that they’re going to go in. “Yeah, according to mum she keeps on saying she’s gonna sell it, just like before–” he cuts himself off, and the you left part of his sentence is left unsaid, but Harry hears it, anyway. Louis continues, then, carrying on, “but between you and me, I think she’ll be here forever, if she can.”

Harry breathes a laugh as he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets, eyes on the ground as they climb the steps to the entrance. “S’long time, that,” he muses.

He hears Louis hum just a little ahead of him, one hand on the door. He turns back, and the movement causes Harry to lift his gaze, without thinking. Louis shrugs, voice low, “Some might say not long enough.”

Louis steps inside without waiting for a response, and so Harry doesn’t give him one. He doesn’t think he’d know what to say, anyway, given the chance. Instead, he just follows Louis inside, happy to be in from out the cold, back into a familiar place. Happy to be back home.

–

“Bit early for Christmas decorations, innit?”

Harry’s eyes are locked on the twinkly fairy lights strung up along the familiar country lane they’re walking down, formed delicately in the shapes of christmas trees and stars and angels, despite the fact that there’s still one more day until December begins. It’s not an issue, not really, in fact it’s probably just a tactic to talk about anything other than the very real reality that they’re slowly, and steadily making their way towards Louis’ house. 

Louis had suggested paying a visit, for early dinner, maybe, as they were finishing their last dregs of tea, considering they had the time for it. Harry had been inclined to say no, at first, but had then stopped himself just in time. 

He– it doesn’t have to be a big deal, really. He shouldn’t feel scared, or nervous, except… Except when he left this little town, when he turned away from Holmes Chapel and didn’t look back, he left behind more than one person. He left an entire extended family, one that he’s neglected to contact in five years, too, and that’s… it wasn’t fair, truthfully, and he knows this, and really, who’s to know if they even want to see him? To say Harry is a little apprehensive is an understatement. 

Louis hums in response, nudging Harry from his thoughts. “Guess so,” he murmurs, chuckling to himself after a brief pause. “Mum doesn’t seem to think so, though. Wait ‘til you see the house, s’mental. She’s sent me pictures already; she’s so excited.”

Harry smiles fondly at the thought, eyes finding Louis’ profile next to his. He looks so wrapped up warm, beanie pulled low and soft scarf piled around his neck. Ridiculously, Harry finds it sweet, and he really doesn’t want to think about the implications behind feeling endeared at just the mere sight of someone donning some bloody knitwear. Pathetic. It is getting rather chilly, though, Harry will admit, days getting darker quicker, too, and Harry’s pretty sure he can see his breath, actually. 

He pulls his collar up tightly around his neck, feeling the chill more and more by the minute. “Yeah, pretty sure our mums used to semi-compete every year to see who could have the most outrageous amount of decorations,” Harry replies, just a hint of unease nestling in the pit of his stomach at his mention of their past again. He does it more often, now, and Louis seems fine about it as of late, so long as it’s not about them specifically. Or what happened between them. 

Louis laughs next to him, and perhaps the slight edge to it is a figment of Harry’s ever so slightly paranoid imagination. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice a little raspy, probably from the cold. “I remember.”

A flash of heat blooms in Harry’s chest, then, and it’s silly, really, his glee at the acknowledgement of their past on Louis’ side, especially as he does it more and more often, now, but still. Harry can’t help it.

They walk in comfortable silence for a little while longer, before Louis stops in his tracks, and Harry follows, and lifts his gaze to see that they’re outside a very familiar old stone house. Everything looks the same, to Harry’s equal astonishment and relief, bar the dark green door that looks as though it’s been given a new lick of paint since he was last here. The sight alone is enough to knock the breath out of Harry, just a little bit.

Louis steps forward and pushes open the old wooden gate, still creaking like it always has. He leads the way as they walk up the short path to the front door, and up close, Harry can spot the large Christmas tree already up through the frosty window, can spy glimpses of tinsel and stockings hung up along the fireplace. A sharp sense of nostalgia burns brightly inside of Harry for a moment at the sight; suddenly he’s transported back in time five years, sixteen years old again, helping Louis and the rest of the family decorate their tree, because they always did do it early, Harry remembers now, and it’s all coming back to him, and–

“...Harry?” 

Harry blinks, suddenly aware that Louis’ been speaking to him for possibly the last minute or so and he’s just been staring in the window like some creep, ignoring him in favour of having a mild episode. 

“What? Sorry, uh, what was that?” he responds sheepishly, focus now solely on Louis, and not ancient memories that serve no purpose resurfacing like that. 

Louis looks at him funnily, slight glint in his eye as one corner of his mouth turned up. “Still easily away with the fairies, then,” he muses, one hand on the door handle. “I said are you ready?” 

Harry huffs softly across at him, brows furrowed slightly in protest. “Hey,” he grumbles, through reluctantly curved lips, “it’s a talent of mine, treat it as such, if you will.” Louis rolls his eyes, then, but dare Harry say it’s almost… fond? “And yeah, ‘course I am.”

Louis nods, and then opens the door easily, and the warmth hits Harry immediately. Along with the smell, something warm and roasted and probably delicious.

“Hello!” Louis calls, “Mum? ‘M here, bit early!” He turns to Harry, then, who’s just finished shutting the front door, with a slight smirk across his lips as he says the next words, “and I’ve got a surprise for you!”

A surprise? What? Harry didn’t know that he was being kept a surprise, now there’s all this pressure, and–

“Hi love, I– oh my– is that you Harry?! My goodness, how you’ve grown!”

A delighted voice comes from somewhere off to his left, and then before he knows it, the source of it is standing right in front of him, positively beaming.

Harry hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the other Tomlinson family members apart from Louis over these years until he’s standing in the entryway with Jay smiling at him like this, just like she’d done however many times before in his life, and, suddenly, he feels close to tears.

“Hello, my darling,” she coos as she pulls him into a hug, all soft spoken and warm and mum-like, and for God’s sake Harry really should call his own mum more often. “How are you? It’s been so terribly long!”

Harry takes a deep breath as they embrace, tightly, catching Louis’ eye in the process, who’s wearing an amused smile at the sight before him. Harry quickly releases his breath and grins, then, winking at Louis in an attempt to bring an element of playfulness back into a situation that he did not at all think he would get so emotional over. 

Louis coughs into his fist, rather lacking in tact Harry might add, and his next words drip with equal parts sarcasm and pleasure, “uh, hello to you too, mum! I’m only your son that hasn’t seen you in a few months, is all, don’t mind me.”

Jay tuts goodnaturedly, throwing a ‘oh, hush, I’ll get to you in a minute,’ behind her shoulder before facing back to Harry, earning a disbelieving cackle out of Louis, who cites a trip to the loo to let them have their ‘alone time’, as he so charmingly puts it.

“So great to see you too, Jay,” Harry replies, noticing the height difference immediately. He really has grown, then. He’s yet to see the rest of the household, but he’s sure they’ll all come tumbling down the stairs excitedly soon enough. Maybe they’re a little old for that now, actually. “I’ve been really good, thanks. How about you?”

Jay smiles softly across at him, eyes crinkling sweetly at the corners, just like Louis’ do. “Oh, same as usual, really, sweetheart. How’s your mum? It was such a shame when you moved away, I miss her, although we do have a lovely phone call every now and again,” Harry smiles, unable to get a word in edgewise, just like old times. Jay gives him a pitying look, then, voice a little quiet; sad, almost, “I remember now, how upset you boys both were,” before Harry can pause on the thought for a moment, because, hold on, that’s not how he remembers it, Jay carries on before he gets the chance to go any further. “How wonderful that you found your way back to each other, though, isn’t it? When Louis told me, I thought, what a lovely coincidence this photoshoot is! So, so lovely, really.”

Harry releases a breath, unable to recall when he held it. That was… a lot to process all at once, and it takes Harry a moment to respond.

“Yeah,” he agrees, eventually, “such a great coincidence, really,” really, really great, actually. “Um, my mum’s doing really well, thanks. Been meaning to go and see her, actually, might go and spend Christmas with them this year, I think.”

Jay smiles across at him, almost expectantly, like she’s waiting for him to say something else. He doesn’t– he wouldn’t even know where to start on commenting on the finding their way back to each other part, because it might just hit a little too close to home. 

When he doesn’t respond, she continues on, impressively. “Well, we’ve missed you a lot around here,” she tells him, then, and he feels a pang of guilt in his stomach at the words. Jay then lowers her voice, slightly, nodding her head to the side to an almost imperceptible degree before saying, “some more than others, I think.”

Harry startles at the implication, just for a moment. He… Harry knows he’s missed Louis, God he’s missed him, and yes, knows that by logic Louis probably has missed him a little bit, too, but he didn’t think it was anything significant, not by any means. Louis didn’t seem like it, anyway, when they first met again. He seemed fine, even, like the years didn’t really bother him nearly as much as Harry. It’s odd then, that Jay would specifically tell him this. There’s no time to ruminate on the matter, though, because Louis chooses that moment to reappear, rounding the corner just as Harry begins his reply.

“I can’t excuse myself enough for how long it’s taken me to come back and visit,” he says finally, words brimming with regret as he starts to think about how many birthdays, Christmases he’s missed, or failed to acknowledge. He briefly glances up at Louis, not quite meeting his eyes, before telling her, “Honestly, I’m so sorry, I’ve missed you all a lot, too.”

Jay sighs exasperatedly, waving a hand in front of her in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t be so silly Harry!” she laughs, literally laughs, like his behaviour for the past five years has been okay at all. It might have felt like it, to Harry, at first, but. But he knows, he’s realised, has been realising, over the past few weeks that it actually, sort of wasn’t. “I understand you’ve been a busy bee, working on your career, getting very successful, I hear!” she turns to glance at Louis at that, who seems to have been in some sort of daze, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glazed over, staring blankly at the two of them. 

He blinks, and then his features relax, slowly. “Uh– yeah, yes, I have, um, may have mentioned that, I think, perhaps–”

Jay scoffs, and turns back to Harry, “I couldn’t get him to stop talking about you to be honest, Harry, all ‘Another Man’ this and ‘Christopher Nolan’ that…”

“Uh, alright mum I think that’s quite enough, now,” Louis chimes in, quickly, a nervous laugh vaguely detectable through his words. Harry can’t help his smug smile as he turns to face Louis. 

Jay laughs at the two of them; Harry smirking across at Louis, eyebrows raised in question, sort of loving the idea of Louis chatting to his mum for ages about Harry, and not even denying that fact, while Louis does his classic defiant Louis stance, arms crossed and brows slightly furrowed, but a hint of a smile on his face like he can’t quite take himself too seriously.

“Anyway, Harry,” he hears Jay continue, seemingly pleased at the mess she’s purposely created. “Happy to be back in Holmes Chapel, then?”

Harry knows he should look at someone when he’s talking to them, that it’s incredibly rude not to do so, except. Except he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Louis; from the sweet flush on his cheeks, or the heat behind his eyes, or the reluctant curve to his pink lips. Not at all. Not for the first time today, either. 

“Yeah,” he breathes back, a little delayed, eyes still stuck on Louis’. Voice quiet, and soft in the small space. Almost private. “Feels good to be home.”

In the moment, Harry doesn’t quite know what he’s referring to. The feeling of being back in a familiar place blurring together with the feeling of being back here, the same place it all started, with Louis. 

Both home in their own ways.

(He tries not to think about it too much).

–

When Harry meets Dan, he tries to contain his shock at the new face, and, considering he plays pretend for a living, by all intents and purposes it should be easy. Should be. 

“Hiya! Harry is it? So lovely to finally meet you!” The man, Dan, Harry reminds himself, pulls Harry into a hug, words bright and excitable, like he really means them. Harry hugs him back, eventually, after his initial shock. Why didn’t Louis tell him–?

Harry clears his throat, then, as they pull away from the hug, can feel the furrow in his brow as he tries to seek Louis’ gaze out, and is unsuccessful; the other man playing on his phone across the kitchen. Of course. 

“Harry, this is my husband, Dan,” Jay had said, minutes before, and Harry had tried ever so hard not to widen his eyes, or let his mouth drop in confusion. If Jay notices, she doesn’t say anything, just smiles sweetly as she does, and goes back to finishing preparing whatever it was she was before they’d arrived and interrupted everything. 

“Yeah, you too,” he says belatedly, and he really needs to stop doing that, although Dan doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it, cheerfully going over to help Jay with some chopping up. It’s… it’s such a happy household, he notes, and it’s rather comforting to Harry. Nothing like what his house felt like, in the lead up to his parents’ divorce. He doesn’t want to think about that right now, though.

Harry feels a gentle hand on his arm, then, turns to see Louis smiling smally at him. He gives him a smile in return. Can’t help it. Never could, really.

“Want to help me set the table?”

Harry is partially distracted by the warmth of Louis’ hand still placed carefully on his arm, and partially by the sight of Louis, like this, all comfortable and happy and relaxed at home, just like the old him. It makes Harry feel comfortable, too; like he can momentarily forget about the world outside, about who he is, and everything that involves, forget about being Harry Styles, and just be Harry, just for a bit. Harry merely nods, in response, because of all of this, and follows Louis out of the kitchen and into the dining room, easily.

It’s only when Harry’s setting down the cutlery, right next to the placemats Louis’ already put down, that he says anything. 

Harry clears his throat, eyes focussed deliberately downwards at the table, Louis’ hands setting glasses down just in his peripheral vision. “He seems nice, then,” he murmurs, aiming for casual, and low enough just for Louis to hear. “Dan.”

Louis stills in his movements for a moment, like he’s unsure how to answer. He continues, then, replying just as softly. “Yeah, yeah he’s a great guy,” he starts, sounding genuine. Harry wonders if they’re going to mention the fact that last time he was here, so was Louis’ father, and now there’s a different man married to his mum, or if they just… won’t acknowledge it, like they seem to do a lot of things. He wonders if that’s just easier for Louis. “He– he loves mum, a lot, and he’s great for the girls to have.” Suddenly, Louis’ voice breaks a little, and Harry’s breath hitches just slightly. “Especially after, um–”

Without shifting his gaze, Harry reaches across the table to grasp Louis’ hand in his own, squeezing tightly. He doesn’t even think about it, really. After a second, in the silence, Louis grips his hand tightly back, and Harry hears the boy sigh raggedly, before he releases his hold a moment later. 

Harry looks up, then. Louis’ grip has swapped to the back of a dining chair, his brows taught. Harry doesn’t like it, can feel the coil of anxiety curling deep inside him, wishes he’d never said anything in the first place.

“We, uh, don’t have to talk about it. Obviously,” he rushes out. “Unless, um, you want to. At all. Then we can,” Harry tacks on, willing himself to just shut the fuck up already. “Obviously.”

Louis huffs a small chuckle, then, features relaxing slightly, to Harry’s relief. He takes a breath, then fixes Harry with his gaze, eyes a little far away. “Thanks, Haz.”

Harry smiles across at him, placated. “Anytime,” he offers, meaning it. 

There’s a pause, then, where the air gets a little heavy between them, room quieter than it was before. He could do this forever, Harry decides. Just look at Louis, be in his presence, share a moment like this. 

“All ready for us boys? That table only looks about half set!”

The mood drops as Jay wanders in, followed by the girls who he’d caught up with briefly earlier, and Dan, bowls and trays of food in her arms and a puzzled expression on her face. Harry manages a forced self-deprecating laugh, quickly placing the rest of the glasses down in their places on the table. 

He turns to Jay, taking whatever looks the heaviest from her. “Still lots to catch up on, I suppose, if that’s possible,” he shrugs, placing the tray down into the middle of the table. 

Jay smiles at him, and thanks him silently by placing a hand on his shoulder, before placing the rest of the food down. “Well, there’s no harm in that, I suppose,” and Harry’s pretty sure she winks at him, just then. “Would you mind terribly if you continued your conversation over some dinner?”

Harry laughs, then, pulling her into a sideways hug, suddenly feeling so terribly at home, despite the fact that home was actually a few houses down the lane for him. Didn’t really feel like it at the end, though.

“Of course not, Jay,” he chirps excitedly, catching Louis’ eye as he throws his head back exaggeratedly, and he’s grinning across at them, looking gloriously radiant, and Harry decides he wants to make Louis look like that as much as he can from now on. He gives Louis a private smile, before turning back to Jay, “I’m absolutely starving.”

–

“So, Harry, I hear you’re doing a Nolan film. How’s that going? Always been a fan of him, myself.” 

Across the table, Dan stares expectantly at Harry, and Harry has to speed chew his food in order to answer the question in an acceptable amount of time. 

“Oh, um, yeah, it’s going really well, thanks,” he replies, pleased to offer something to the conversation. He’d been fully content to just watch and listen to the Tomlinson family all chat together and catch up and just be, the way he used to love to do whenever he used to come over for dinner. The quick wit of them all, jokes passed across the table, bouncing from one family member to another, all in good nature. Something else to add to the list of things he’s missed. 

Dan smiles encouragingly back at him, and is about to respond, Harry thinks, when there’s an interruption.

“Ooh!” comes Felicitie’s excited voice from next to Harry, eager as anything, “please, tell us what he’s like! He’s my favourite director, I reckon, I want to know all about him, absolutely everything!” she implores, eyes aglow with fervour. 

Before Harry can reply, Jay beats him to it. “Fizzy,” she warns softly, possibly at the intensity of it. Harry just finds it amusing. 

“What? Harry doesn’t mind,” she assures her mum, and Harry chuckles, the same time Louis lets out a snort. They immediately catch eyes across the table, sharing a quiet moment of mirth. He feels Felicite turn towards him, “Do you?”

“No, not at all,” he laughs, outwardly, then, much to her delight. “Um, he’s a really, really interesting man, actually. Really, uh, knows what he’s doing. Super talented,” Harry feels like he’s being interviewed, for a brief moment, and somehow it just makes it funnier. He looks across at Louis then, smile transforming into a smirk as he chooses his next words carefully. “I just sort of stand there in front of him and look pretty, really. That’s all it is, right?”

Harry can detect the exact moment the joke hits Louis, and Louis rolls his eyes, lips pursed in an obvious attempt to not let a smile slip past his defences. He’s successful for all of about three seconds. 

The others laugh, obviously realising he’s not being serious, and he’s grateful for it. Really wouldn’t want to seem like a self-centered twat in front of Louis’ parents. Not that he’s trying to make a good impression, or anything. That’s not– that isn’t what’s happening here. Anyway. 

Harry’s just finishing a sip of his wine, pleased with himself and his joke, before Jay speaks up from the head of the table. 

“Do you have anything else coming up soon, Harry? After this film, I mean. You must be so busy!”

Harry feels a slight chill zip down his spine at the words. It’s an innocent question, of course, Harry knows this. It’s just, well. The last time Harry mentioned a new project, Louis got all… funny about it. But, no, Harry’s just being silly, Louis even apologised afterwards. It’s a non-issue, the fact he’s even giving it thought is a ridiculous waste of time.

Harry nods, sharply, his turn to find it difficult to contain his excitement. “Uh, I might do, actually,” he starts, chancing a glance over across at Louis for a brief second. He’s not looking at Harry, which is– it’s fine, obviously. Doesn’t mean anything. Harry continues on, “it’s a Spielberg film, if you can believe it–”

“Harry!” “Wow!” Jay and Dan both say at the same time, causing Harry’s tummy to erupt in butterflies, desperate to tell them it’s not for definite yet.

“I mean, I don’t definitely have the part yet!” he adds, quickly, unable to wipe the smile from his face, though, “I’m just shortlisted for it, so–”

“Still, though! That’s incredible, Harry, well done you,” Jay beams, looking as proud and pleased as his own mum did when he facetimed to tell her the news not long ago. 

Harry feels himself blush a little, under all the praise, “thank you, really, I probably won’t even–”

“He’s not just shortlisted.”

Louis’ words, quiet and deliberate, come out a little muffled, as he continues to stare down at where he’s fiddling with the edge of his placemat, and not at Harry. 

Harry’s grin drops a little, caught off guard, unsure what the words mean, why they sound so… ever so slightly off, until.

“It’s between him and one other guy,” Louis explains, matter-of-factly. “He’s practically a shoe-in.” He finally lifts his eyes up, then. There’s a dimmed brightness to them, Harry thinks; they look a little darker than usual, and the smile he wears doesn’t quite reach them. Something’s not right, and Harry can’t understand why. 

Harry hums, after a pause, unsure where to go from there. He looks back at Jay, who looks a tad concerned. Her and Harry both. “Well,” he ventures, a little wary, and he wishes he wasn’t. “I’m not even sure if I’ll take it, even if I do get it, so.” 

Jay nods in polite understanding, and Harry’s prepared to leave it at that. Not everyone else is, though, apparently. 

“What?” Louis suddenly demands, brow furrowed deeply. “That’s ridiculous, why wouldn’t you take it? Why waste an amazing opportunity like that?” he protests, positively vexed at the mere idea that Harry may not take the job, when just recently he’d seemed to hold the entirely opposite viewpoint. Harry is just… very confused, really. This doesn’t make any sense, not at all, but now’s not the time to try and work out why.

“Um,” he responds eloquently, before swallowing and starting again. He feels uncomfortable, under Louis’ hot gaze, all of a sudden. “I– I dunno, I guess I sort of, um, want to keep my options for other projects open, I suppose.” Maybe I just want to stay in London.

Louis scoffs, and it’s not exactly a nice sound. Harry’s heart sinks, he thinks. “Well, personally I think that’s a stupid decision, just so you know,” he announces, bitingly, arms crossed, closing himself off in that painfully familiar way of his.

There’s an awful pause, then, cutlery clattering in the silence, and then.

“Louis?”

This time Jay doesn’t hold back as much, the word a confused, careful caution, immediately taking years off Louis’ age, reminding Harry of a child being chastised. 

Harry wills Louis to look at him, just grant him his gaze. He stares across the table, over the stark silence around them, but Louis won’t look, he– he refuses to, just stares at his lap, expression hard to see. Harry feels his stomach clench, wonders how the mood managed to change so disastrously, so quickly, and why. 

Finally, after a few dreadful moments, Louis lifts his eyes. Harry thinks, if he could just look at him, just see what’s happening on that confusing face of his, if he could just understand–

“I, uh. Don’t feel well. Thanks for dinner, mum.”

Louis doesn’t look at him. Just directs his question at Jay, and doesn’t wait for a response; gets up in one swift movement, taking his barely touched plate with him, retreating to the kitchen. Every sound he makes in the other room prods at Harry, a plate clattering noisily into the sink making him flinch, the sound of the tap running, then being switched off harshly. The kitchen door shutting rather forcefully, and then his echoing footsteps climbing the stairs, loud and abrasive. 

Harry lets out a ragged breath, after a moment. He feels lightheaded, and anxious. He doesn’t know what the fuck just happened. 

He looks at his plate of food, and suddenly doesn’t feel at all hungry anymore. Slightly wishes he could run off citing illness, too, actually. 

He doesn’t even know what to say, now, how to move on from that, whether to comment on it, or ignore it all together, or pretend like it’s completely normal behaviour, and behave as such. He just doesn’t know what the fuck to do at all, really. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“So,” Dan, who Harry has decided is a fantastic bloke, announces. “Anybody want dessert?”

–

Later, when Harry’s helping Jay to wash up, and tidy everything away, he’s calmed down a bit. It’s rather therapeutic, actually, idly drying dishes and plates that Jay hands to him. He’s trying not to think too much into what happened earlier, and so it’s a welcome distraction. It’s just the two of them, too, and they’re working together in comfortable silence, the radio crooning Christmas music lowly in the background. 

He’s almost finished with the cutlery when Jay switches off the tap, and pauses. Harry notices, and waits, head cocked in anticipation. 

“Harry…” she begins, turning towards him. She’s wearing this sort of apologetic expression, a sad smile on her face. Harry waits for her to go on. “You must forgive Louis, I think–”

“Oh, no, I, um,” he starts, waving a hand in front of him. “It’s absolutely fine, really. I’m sure it was nothing.” he tries, hoping to swiftly move past this. 

Jay fixes him with a disbelieving look, and, well. He supposes that’s not going to happen.

Fuck, he thinks. So they’re going to acknowledge it, alright. Harry doesn’t know how he feels about talking about Louis with his mum, when he’s not here, like this. Doesn’t seem like he has much of a choice, though.

She puts a warm hand on his arm, squeezing slightly. “You’re too kind, Harry,” she tells him, smiling a little more, now. “You always have been.”

Harry releases a nervous laugh at her words, eyes directed downwards, unsure of how to reply.

“I’m not sure about that,” he finally settles on, lifting his gaze back up. She’s fixing him with a look that Harry can’t quite place; somewhere between tenderness and hesitance, before she directs her gaze to out the window above the sink. It’s a minute before she says anything in response.

“It was… it was around this time, five years ago, that Louis’ dad left, you know.”

Harry’s mouth falls open in silent shock at her words, and he shuts it almost immediately. 

It’s not like he hadn’t suspected it, because he had, of course he had; it was obvious what had happened as soon as he stepped inside and Jay had introduced Harry to someone who definitely was not the man that Harry knew before he left. That Jay had obviously, at one point, divorced Louis’ father and remarried. It’s just. He just hadn’t expected her to tell him, so plainly, so outwardly, like this. Wonders a little why she’s telling him something so private in the first place.

Perhaps she thought he’d already known. He should’ve, really. He wishes he had. Wishes Louis had told him. Can’t understand why he hadn’t.

“I… I’m so sorry, Jay,” he swallows thickly through the words, his throat dry. “That must’ve been, um, very difficult for you.”

She turns to him again, now, and her eyes seem a little glassier than before. Perhaps it’s just the light, though. 

She sighs, softly. “Oh, don’t worry about me, love,” she tells him, shaking her head. “I’m perfectly happy, now. Happier than ever, actually.” 

Harry feels his lips lift, can’t help it. “That’s really good to hear, Jay,” he says, unsure where this is going. “Really good.”

“Thank you, darling,” she murmurs, softly. “Anyway, that’s not the point of this,” she says, a little louder, but only just enough for Harry to hear, “the point is, I think– around this time of year, it’s hard for Lou, you know? Even after all this time. Especially coming home, too.”

Harry understands, now. Of course. That explains the strange mood at dinner, of course it does. Well. Partially at least. 

But Harry can’t stop thinking about that time in France, when he’d first mentioned the film, how Louis’d reacted, then. Something niggles at the back of Harry’s brain, like there’s something he’s missing. Still, though, Louis’ dad. He wishes he’d known. 

Harry finds himself nodding, halfway through his thoughts. “Right, of course, of course,” he agrees, “that, uh, that makes sense.”

Jay purses her lips, then, like she’s unsure. “Well, yes, it does. Still, it doesn’t give him a right to be rude, though,” she stares at him pointedly, and Harry feels his cheeks heat up. “Especially to his oldest friend.” 

Harry hums in response, again unsure what to say. He goes back to drying the rest of the cutlery, and can still feel Jay’s eyes on him, and tries to pretend as though he can’t.

After a moment, Jay starts putting things away, and Harry thinks the conversation has ended. 

“I told Dan to set up the spare bed for you, by the way,” she says, off-handedly, and Harry glances at her, puzzled.

He clears his throat, while she continues to place plates and glasses in cupboards, apparently unaware of Harry’s confusion. 

“Uh, that’s okay, actually, Jay. I’ve got a hotel booked for the night, thank you for the–”

Jay tuts loudly, as if this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “Oh, don’t be silly, Harry!” she tells him, glancing briefly over her shoulder at him, probably missing his still confused expression. “You’re family. You’re staying here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Imagine what your mother would think if I let you go to to a hotel!” the last word comes out like it leaves an exceptionally bitter taste in her mouth, and Harry finds it so surprisingly amusing that he forgets to protest. “Honestly.” 

Harry can’t think of anything else to say other than a thank you, to Jay’s obvious delight. It’s really no use arguing with mothers, Harry has come to learn over the years. They always win. 

“Of course,” she tells him, voice warm and as though he’d be silly to think there was ever another alternative. “I can finish the rest, here, you must be exhausted,” she nods in the direction of the stairs, and Harry takes it as his cue to leave. “Go on, love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Harry smiles gratefully, and gives her a hug and kiss on the cheek as he moves past her towards the doorway, limbs suddenly heavy, and eyelids not fair much better, the early start to the day finally catching up to him. 

When Harry lugs himself up the stairs, quiet as possible so as not to wake anyone who might already be asleep, he’s fully prepared to turn right and go straight to the spare room, to a warm, comfy bed, and fall asleep immediately, except. 

Except when he gets to the landing, he sees a sliver of light coming from underneath a familiar bedroom door, and, well. He just can’t find it in himself to walk past and ignore it.

He takes hesitant steps over to the door, leveling his breaths, hoping they don’t sound as nervous as he feels. This is stupid, he tells himself. There’s no need to be nervous, for fuck’s sake. Just knock and go in, you’ve done it a thousand times before. 

He raps softly on the door, twice. 

“Come in,” a muffled voice materialises from the other side, low and sleep-heavy, it sounds like. He opens the door slowly.

The sight that meets him is so painfully familiar is almost stops him in his steps for a second. It’s so reminiscent of that awful day, years before, the day he had to tell Louis– the day it began to end, really. Harry’s breath stutters as he takes it all in, and he shuts the door softly, not wanting to disturb the still of the room. 

Louis’ laying in the bed, shirtless, distractingly, brows raised slightly, a dogeared book held loosely in his grip, eyes focussed on Harry. Finally. 

“Hi,” he utters, carefully, the moment feeling delicate, somehow.

Louis sits up a little more, and he almost looks… surprised, to see Harry. “Hey,” he replies, almost inaudible. Harry moves a little closer.

“I, um– I was just talking to your mum,” he tells him, eyes cast downwards as he pulls his hands behind his back, unsure how to breach this subject properly.

He hears Louis release a short chuckle, and he glances up. “Uh oh,” Louis jokes, lips breaking into a small smile, voice a little raspy, the way that makes Harry shiver, ever so slightly. “That doesn’t sound very good.”

Harry smiles back, grateful for the slight easiness to the atmosphere in the room, now. “Don’t worry,” he reassures him, finally moving to sit in the space Louis’ made at the end of his bed. “Was nothing too terrible,” he drawls, sighing as he gets comfortable.

Louis giggles softly, only a little reluctance to it, the lovely crinkles at the edge of his eyes visible where Harry’s sitting close. God, he adores them. “Well, that’s definitely comforting.”

They share a laugh, hushed, and then there’s another silence, the mood shifting back to something uncertain. Harry swallows, knowing now is the time, probably. Now or never.

He looks at Louis in the eyes, leans a little closer, and his heart beats a little faster.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me, Blue? About your dad?”

Harry knows it’s unfair to use the nickname on Louis, at a time like this, but. Perhaps it wasn’t fair not to tell Harry, to leave something so large out of conversation, especially when Harry actually thought they were growing a lot more closer, and… well. Perhaps it was fair. 

Louis blinks, once, and then frowns, biting his lip as he looks away. He starts fiddling with the edge of one of the pages of the book. He’s nervous. 

Harry reaches across, because Louis shouldn’t be nervous, not with him. “Hey,” he murmurs, as he places a hand on Louis’ thigh, a reminder that he’s here, to listen. “It’s okay, I just– I’m just confused, is all.”

Louis simply shakes his head, saying nothing, and Harry hates it. Hates this blatant avoidance of the topic, hates how he can’t get through to Louis, no matter how much he tries.

Harry squeezes, a plea, wanting desperately for Louis to say something, anything. He doesn’t. 

“Louis, I’m so sorry, it must’ve been–” Harry takes in a deep breath, feeling a pressure on his chest. “It must’ve been so difficult, especially now, because it was around this ti–”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Louis suddenly says, voice devoid of any perceptible emotion, eyes glimmering as they find Harry’s, and it just about breaks Harry’s heart. 

Harry merely nods, worried about what would come out if he opened his mouth.

Louis stares at him, breathing a little shorter than before, cheeks a little pink, lips bitten, and Harry feels terrible, half wishes he’d never said anything, half wishes this was all a little easier. Louis looks so unbearably young, like this, sitting in his childhood bed, close to tears. Harry wants to hold his hand, desperately. 

“Harry.”

Harry almost gasps at the whispered word. “Yes?” he asks, unable to stop himself from leaning closer.

Louis lets out a ragged breath. “I… I need–,” he starts, before cutting himself off, looking away.

Harry feels out of air. “Yeah?” he asks, eagerly, face to face with him now. “Anything, Lou, what is it? What do you need?”

There’s a pause, then, where Louis takes a moment, before meeting Harry’s gaze again, mouth trembling, eyelashes wet with early tears. Harry just about contains a whimper. 

He places his own hand atop of Harry’s, hot and tense. The words come out all quiet, desperate, almost, and barely there, but Harry hears them clearly. 

“Just– just please,” he utters, breath warm in the small gap between them. “Distract me.”

Harry nods fervently, before he thinks any better of it, because this is Louis, for God’s sake, and Harry can’t help himself when it comes to Louis, would do anything to take that painful expression from his face. 

One minute there’s inches separating them, and then there isn’t, and Harry’s lips are hard and desperate on Louis’ own, one had on his neck and the other still on his thigh, squeezing hard, as he pushes Louis onto his back, easily, moving to hover above him without breaking the kiss. He knows this probably isn’t right, that it’s not exactly a healthy coping mechanism, that Harry should really try and get Louis to talk about it, instead of– instead of this, but, well. 

Harry never could say no to Louis. 

He breathes deeply as the kiss deepens, the taste of Louis’ mouth sweet and addictive on Harry’s tongue. He’s half aware of Louis’ entire family probably (hopefully) sleeping around them, so he’s aware he should try and keep his sounds to a minimum. Try being the operative word here.

He feels Louis’ hands come up to squeeze his waist, before finding the edge of Harry’s shirt, tugging slightly. 

Their kiss breaks with a soft sound, Louis’ whispered breath hot against Harry’s lips. “Take it off, love,” he says, voice already raw, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s already half hard. 

Despite this, he is, as he just previously noted, aware of Louis’ family who are very much only separated by (hopefully, very thick) walls. He’s not sure them having sex would go very undetected, unfortunately.

“I–, you know I’d love to, Lou,” he says, gesturing between the two of them, whilst Louis just stares at him blankly, “I’d really, really love to, but I don’t think–”

“I know, I know,” Louis assures him, laughing softly, seemingly getting what Harry was saying. He blinks, languidly, then moves a hand to Harry’s cheek, cupping it gently. “Just want to look at you.”

Harry’s heart lurches in his chest, at his words. He can only bring himself to nod. He takes his top off, leaning back down to cradle Louis’ face, just to take him in. He’s breathtaking, really. 

Louis’ fingertips skim Harry’s bare back, mapping out each muscle and bone, all the while maintaining their eye contact, blue eyes wide and alert, lashes thick and dark where they frame them; absolutely gorgeous. His touch comes to trace down Harry’s neck, and then chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Harry shivers at the feeling, burying his forehead into Louis’ neck, and starts to plant small kisses along his collarbone. 

It feels more intimate than anything they’ve ever done, but somehow it feels right, and Harry doesn’t want to stop, not at all. Louis doesn’t seem to, either, by the looks (and feel) of things. Louis places his hands onto Harry’s sides, before pressing their hips together, hard, eliciting a sharp gasp out of Harry that he muffles against Louis’ neck. 

“F–Fuck, Lou,” Harry gets out, at the feeling of Louis’ hardness against his own, and at the painful reminder that there’s about three layers of fabric too many separating them, positively maddening. 

Louis shushes him, one hand moving to stroke Harry’s hair, gently, and the tenderness of it is almost a little too much for Harry. He combs his fingers into a few short strands, and then pulls upwards, slightly, to get Harry to face him, presumably, but Louis knows what getting his hair pulled does to Harry, and it’s as if Louis knows what’s coming, because at once he’s silencing Harry’s whine with a kiss, hot and open-mouthed. 

Harry breathes heavily against Louis’ lips, consciously aware of their cocks still pressed together with one of Louis’ hands moving to Harry’s bum to keep them there, and of the growing heat in his groin. 

“You’re cruel,” he huffs out, only half joking, to which Louis only chuckles darkly at.

He reaches down to unbutton Harry’s jeans, then, thank fuck, and when his knuckles brush against Harry’s now thinly veiled cock, Harry lets out a hiss, one that Louis catches. 

Louis makes a noise of approval, voice teasing as he traces along Harry’s shaft slowly, his other hand back up to Harry’s hair, tugging a little harder, now. “You like that, then?” 

“You know I do,” Harry grumbles, and Louis rolls his eyes, and this is more like it, he thinks, all teasing and snarky, like a game of sexual chicken. Sort of. 

Harry takes the moment to blindly find the elastic of Louis’ boxers; apparently the only item of clothing thing he’d been wearing when Harry had walked in, thankfully. Less material to deal with, and all that. He dips his fingers in, tugging slightly, and focuses on Louis, a silent question. Louis’ playful expression has faded, in its place something more serious, eyes wide as he stares up at Harry. He nods, once, and Harry’s hand finds Louis’ cock not a second later, pulling it out of the underwear easily, almost fully hard in his hold.

Louis’ breath stutters at the feeling of Harry’s hand on him, and his eyes flicker, bottom lip bitten between his teeth beautifully. His own hold on Harry has stalled, and Harry takes that opportunity to shift further down the bed, pulling the blanket with him, squeezing Louis’ cock once before he gets level with it.

Louis seems to notice their change in position a little belatedly, and leans up on his elbows, voice directed down at Harry. “Hey, Haz, you don’t have to do th–”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Harry assures him, mouth deliberately close to Louis’ cock, hot breath from his whisper no doubt hitting Louis’ tip. “Just want to make you feel good, yeah?”

Louis looks like he’s going to argue, until Harry holds a finger up to his lips, reminding Louis to stay as quiet as possible, before he squeezes the bottom of his shaft. Louis quickly nods, head tipping back as his eyes fall shut, cock twitching in Harry’s hold. Harry tries not to think about his own neglected erection, shifting it slightly in his pants, ignoring it in favour of making Louis feel good, because that’s all he really wants to do, right now.

Harry gets to work quickly, licking a thick stripe up the underside of Louis’ dick, mouth coming to circle Louis’ tip as he gets to the end, tongue tasting the sensitive edge until he hears Louis whimper. He takes him down meticulously, getting into an easy rhythm the harder Louis gets, his hand filling any space his mouth can’t quite reach. 

It’s only been a few minutes when Louis grabs Harry’s hair, roughly, grip tight and unrelenting, and it goes straight to Harry’s dick. Harry feels more than hears that Louis is about to come, ears ringing at the sublime feeling, although he’s sure Louis must warn him. At once, Harry speeds up, sucks his lips tighter around Louis, determined to make it brilliant for him. He doesn’t think about Louis’ hand tightening in his hair, or what it’s doing to Harry’s frankly painful cock, not until he feels the familiar, hot streaks of Louis’ come hit the back of his throat, a small whine come from above him, and suddenly, impossibly, at the same time, his own release, too.

He slowly pulls off Louis, and lets him come down, a little short of breath himself, too. He– he can’t believe he just came, just like that, untouched. Just at the feeling of getting Louis off, that’s… it’s never happened to Harry before.

He crawls up the bed, leisurely, ending up positioning himself at Louis’ side as he watches the other man’s chest rise and fall, eyes screwed shut, still. His features start to relax, slowly, and Harry feels the tension in his muscles relax along with them. 

Eventually, Louis’ eyes flutter open, and he turns on his side to face Harry. They’re close, again, mere inches away. They stay like that for a little while, just looking at each other, blue eyes piercing Harry’s own, and he can’t look away. Harry doesn’t shift any closer, though, as much as he wants to. 

“I, um,” Harry starts, breaking the delicate silence between them. “Should probably go, back, just in case.” Just in case your mum sees the spare room tomorrow and realises that the bed hasn’t been slept in.

Louis hums, turning over, moving close into Harry’s space, his back against Harry’s chest. “Stay,” he whispers, and Harry wishes he could see his expression. “Just for a bit.”

So Harry does.

Later, when Harry can start to hear the sounds of Louis’ soft snores, he takes that moment, to slowly, carefully, extricate himself from their embrace. He removes his arm that he’d snaked around Louis’ waist, placing a final kiss on the back of Louis’ neck, without thinking, before getting out of the bed.

As Harry makes his way across the landing to the spare room - an idea that has become less and less appealing over the past hour or so - he can’t help but think that there’s something he might be missing. 

–

The next few days of shooting go quickly.

First they start outside Harry’s old school, and Liam’s got him all dressed up in a long plaid wool coat, plus those slightly odd white patterned trousers from earlier in the shoot. Louis gets Harry to stand outside, by the sign, all brooding and serious, and Harry’s not sure he fully agrees with the artistic vision. 

(Okay, so maybe it’s just a ploy to tease Louis, and make him squirm. Sue him).

“Should I just do this? I think that works,” Harry offers, mock-seriously, lifting a knee up to brace the sign, a hand on the side to keep his balance in the risque position. He stands with his eyebrows raised in question, and waits for Louis to materialise from behind the camera, eager for his reaction.

Whilst the rest of the crew around them look either confused or just fed up with Harry’s antics, Louis just rolls his eyes, lips pulled into a reluctant smile, a sweet sigh escaping his lips.

He focuses on Harry, unable to hide his amusement. “For some reason, Harry,” he tells him, brows furrowing in faux-contemplation, “I don’t quite think that’s what we have in mind.”

Hary holds his hands up, surrendering, before assuming his previous position. “Alright, alright,” he concedes, trying his best to keep the smile off his face. It’s just too easy, sometimes. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Louis steps a little closer, then, kneeling to get some different shots, before peeking over the camera. “I think I like that, you know,” he mutters, face mostly obscured. Harry feels his cheeks flush, and he clears his throat, trying not to think too far into it. They are in public, after all.

He smirks, as he angles his face away for Louis. So he appreciates a little subservience. Harry will definitely remember that for next time. 

Harry clears his throat, then, eyes still directed away, voice low, just so that Louis can hear. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

Louis just hums in response, and continues to click away more and more. Probably for the best, really. Harry’s suddenly aware of the amount of people who could have picked up on their conversation.

Somehow, he can’t really bring himself to care too much.

–

The next shot is at Rosie’s, because Harry had insisted.

“I don’t even really like belgian buns, you know,” Harry tells anyone who will listen, as he shoves what feels like the fourth sickly sweet cake into his mouth. He’s met with a few absent hums from the crew, plus a disinterested snort from Louis. Can’t win them all, then.

There’s a few more clicks, before, “in the next shot you’ve got a pint, s’at any better?” 

Harry smiles around the bite of his treat, licking the icing off his lips before replying. “Much,” he approves, seeking out Louis’ gaze. He flashes a playful grin towards the photographer, once he takes a break from snapping pictures. 

Louis returns it, after an odd pause that Harry can’t really understand. Harry notices its brevity, though, only lasting a few seconds, before Louis turns away rather abruptly, consulting something with Paul.

It’s– it’s fine, Harry decides, despite his slowly fading smile, and slight furrow to his brow at the response he got. Absolutely fine. Nothing to worry about, he’s sure. 

They’ve got a shoot to do, anyway. Harry doesn’t have time to worry.

–

Harry gets sent the article as they’re driving in the car back to London, late.

‘Harry Styles looked delighted as he and a mystery male pal were seen cosying up over a cup of coffee at a cafe in Harry’s hometown of Holmes Chapel’ one line reads. 

There’s a picture of them both, too. A grainy, blurry thing, taken from far away, most likely from outside the window, of Harry and the back of Louis sitting together on a sofa, at the back of Rosie’s, laughing. Harry looks at himself, studies the stretch to his lips, how his eyes are half shut from laughter. He looks happy, he thinks to himself. Really happy.

Should I tell them who the ‘mystery male pal’ is, and they can update the article? Louis’ name and the fact that you’re seen together might help galvanise some publicity for the shoot when it comes out!

– Lindy 

Harry glances over at Louis, slumped next to him in the back of the car, dead asleep. He looks so peaceful like this, serene, almost. Delicate lines of his profile lit up every so often by the streetlights they pass as they zip down the motorway, bright and then dim, over and over again. So beautiful.

No, that’s fine, he types, thumbs hovering before he types the rest. Leave it as it is.

H. x

As selfish as it may be, there are some things that Harry just wants to keep to himself.

–

Harry comes back from France on a Monday.

He’d been there just for a long weekend, shooting a few more of his scenes before flying back in time for some meetings in London. 

He sighs exhaustively as he opens his front door, finally home. He feels like he’d been travelling all day, the evening already having begun to settle in when the car eventually dropped him off from the airport. 

He’s barely dumped his luggage down before he hears the soft, telltale pitter patter of tiny footsteps rushing towards him. A smile materialises onto his face. 

“Hello, darling,” he coos, scooping up the puppy gently, cradling her close. He’d missed her, despite it only being a few days. He must remember to text Niall and thank him for looking after her. 

Harry carries her with him as he strolls into the kitchen, intent on making a cup of tea after a strenuous day. He’d been filming in the water all morning, before being whisked away to the airport straight after his final scene. He loves the rush of the industry, he does, but sometimes it can be extremely taxing, especially when he’s running on such little sleep.

That’s another issue.

It’s something that’s been weighing on Harry’s mind for the past week or so, every since he left Holmes Chapel. Well. Just Louis, really.

He just. He thinks there’s something the other man’s holding back from him, something he won’t share, for whatever reason. The way he’d been acting a bit off, just a little. Harry’s been driving himself insane over it, wondering what it is, if he can help fix it. If Louis’ alright. 

When Harry sits down with his cup of tea, and reaches into his pocket for his phone, he has every intention of texting Niall to thank him before even thinking about doing anything else. 

All that goes out the window when he opens his messages, and there’s a new one in his inbox.

you land okay ? x

Harry completely disregards the previous message, doesn’t even think before he’s typing a completely unrelated response.

Do you want to come over?x

–

It’s a clear night in Richmond, the stars just about visible above them, uncommonly.

They’re sitting on the roof, wrapped in a blanket, a bottle of red wine Harry had found in his cupboard being shared between them.

He had suggested it, on a whim, really, when Louis had arrived. He’d been standing outside, waiting to open the gate for Louis’ car, and had noticed the unpolluted sky, a rare occurrence. 

They’d been sitting in mostly silence, for a little while, occasionally tipsily pointing out constellations to each other that probably weren’t there. It was nice.

Harry spots one that he knows, and tells Louis as much.

“Look, Lou,” he says, being careful not to slur his words. He’s successful so far. “There’s the big dipper!” he points his finger up enthusiastically, outlining it sloppily. “I think… I think, you know, I think that that’s my favourite one.”

Louis hums in amused acknowledgement next to him, a little sleepily. “Why’s that, Haz?” he asks, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. Harry moves a little closer, for practical purposes. Obviously. 

“‘Dunno,” Harry muses, eyes still locked on the small arrangement of stars. He’d stay here and study them for ages, if he could. “I think it’s cos it comes in a pair, maybe,” he decides, turning slightly to face Louis’ profile, edges glowing in the pale moonlight. “It’s never lonely.”

Louis’ features break into a slow smile, at that. Harry doesn’t really know what he’s saying. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, leaning a little more forward. He turns his head a bit, eyes peeking over his shoulder to get his eyes on Harry, the rest of his face covered. “That’s quite a nice way of looking at it.”

Harry blinks, and then huffs and short chuckle in agreement. It is, he decides. He looks back up at the pair of constellations, one a little smaller than the other. It reminds him of something. A memory, distant.

He must make a noise, or something, because Louis looks at him. “What?” he asks, wiping his mouth for any stray drops of red wine, brows slightly knitted together, lips lifted.

“Nothin’” Harry replies, glancing over, before his eyes go back to the sky. “S’just,” he pauses. “Nothin’, it’s stupid,” he dismisses, looking away. Maybe he’s a little past the point of tipsy, now. He accepts the half empty bottle, nonetheless.

Louis makes a soft grunt of mild exasperation. “No, Haz,” he coaxes, squeezing a little closer, and Harry glances over. His eyes are wide, open, searching. “Tell me,” he says. 

Harry scoots closer, feeling the late night Winter chill despite the alcohol coursing through his veins. He casts his eyes upwards again, tracing the lines of the stars with his gaze, a trace of a smile on his lips. 

“They’re like us, Blue.”

Louis’ sharp intake of breath just a moment later is Harry’s indication that he remembers the same memory Harry does.

It was silly, really. A night like this, the two of them laying out in the field behind their houses, trying their best to be as quiet as possible because it was far past their bedtimes, and, well. They might have decided to sneak out to catch a meteor shower that Louis had been told about at school that day. 

Whilst they were waiting, patiently, they’d passed the time by stargazing, and Harry had taken an affinity to the big and little dippers almost instantly. For a few reasons, really.

 

“Look, Blue!” Harry bursts, pointing up above where they lay on the slightly damp grass, eager for the other boy to see what he does. “It’s us!”

Louis sucks in a breath, staring in the direction Harry’s showing him, words coloured with confusion. “What do you mean, Haz? And shh! We’ve got to be quiet, remember.”

Harry bites his lip, but finds it difficult to quell his excitement. “Sorry, sorry,” he rushes out, distracted. “Look, though! It’s the big dipper and the little dipper, right next to each other, there, see?”

It takes Louis a moment, but then he’s nodding, slowly, finding them. “Yeah, yeah I see them, Haz,” he laughs a little, then, fixing Harry with a funny look. “What do you mean ‘it’s us’, though?”

Harry grins across at him, undeterred. “One’s big,” he begins, pointing at Louis, to which he receives the hint of a confused smile. Harry looks up at the stars again. “And the other one’s smaller, like me,” he announces. The logic’s all there, really. He looks back at Louis, who’s expression’s gotten a little warmer in the past moment, if it was possible. Harry’s chest tightens, and he hopes Louis can’t notice him blush in the near dark like this. “And they’re always together, side by side, like you and me,” he adds, words no more than a whisper between them. Louis’ smile has blossomed into something beautiful, and Harry really, really wants to kiss him.

“That’s brilliant, Haz. I love that,” Louis tells him, grinning. His hand finds Harry’s then, and he squeezes it, once. Harry tries not to let his eyes flutter shut at his touch. “Now look, I think the shower’s about to start.”

Harry tears his eyes away from Louis, and watches as the bright lights of the meteors flash above them spectacularly. It’s a wonderful sight, really, Harry will admit. He just can’t help but think that the sight next to him is just a little, tiny bit better.

 

Harry finally turns his head, finds Louis’ hot gaze on him. His stomach clenches, breath suddenly a little shorter. He wonders if he’s gone a little too far, with that, wonders if it’ll make Louis’ close off again. Wonders if it’s too– too revealing. Suddenly he feels rather sober.

“Bit of a change in size difference now, though.”

Harry is a little speechless to that, for a second. He blinks, watching as Louis’ mouth curves up at his own joke, at the reference to how Harry has most definitely overtaken him in height, now, much different to when they were younger and Harry had made the association. 

He breathes out, softly, lips curled into a smile, “yeah,” he agrees, nodding once. “Now you’re the little one.”

Louis fixes him with an indecipherable look, a little far away. “You used to be my– you used to be the little one,” is what comes out, quietly, “before.”

Harry hums, and decidedly doesn’t let himself focus too much on the way Louis had cut himself off. “Lots of things have changed since then, I guess.”

The silence in weighted, and Harry can feel his nerves tingling, the mere notion of breaching the topic of them, of what happened, what changed, utterly tantalising. Louis opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, and Harry thinks, maybe this is it, maybe we’ll finally talk, maybe this is the moment. But then it’s as though he internally decides against it, turning away. Harry lets out a breath he’d been holding.

And then Louis shivers, Harry can feel it right next to him, and that settles it.

“Shall we go inside?”

Louis’ responding brisk nod tells Harry that the conversation is well and truly over. For now, at least.

–

Harry had forgotten that tonight was the night.

The night, meaning he had a few friends coming over, that he’d completely forgotten about until him and Louis had come down from the roof and he’d looked at his phone after a while, and seen a text from Niall telling him to, and Harry quotes, ‘ready your ballsack, because Niallers just around the corner, and he’s coming for ya.’

Charming.

It all started with Nick telling him back when he’s gone back over to France that he was coming over as soon as Harry landed in London. To be fair, he hasn’t seen Nick in ages, and it would be nice to have a catch up. 

And then of course, Nick had invited Anna, who does the radio with him and who is also a rather close friend of Harry’s who he hasn’t really seen for a few months, now, not to mention a delight to have over. Great at charades, that one. 

So by all means, it should be a fun evening, one that Harry should be looking forward to. Except.

Except all he really wants to do is curl up on the sofa with Louis and watch a film and then maybe go to bed together later. It had taken every fibre of self discipline to slip out of bed with Louis at his mum’s house and now that he’s got an opportunity to not do that, he’s going to want to take it, obviously. Assuming Louis wants to sleep over, that is. Which, well. He hasn’t made any attempt to leave, or said anything that made it seem like he had to go soon, so. Maybe. 

It’s not like they have this unspoken agreement that they only sleep together when they’ve, well, slept together, but that’s just sort of how it’s worked out between them. Harry’s a little tired tonight, though, and he’s not really up for… that. Just sort of wants to fall up the stairs, fall into bed and then fall asleep with Louis, in that order, as pathetic as it sounds. He wonders if that’s part of their… agreement, though. Or if it’s even something Louis would want, too. He supposes he’ll have to just wait and see, later.

“Shit,” Harry curses, scrolling through his messages as they stand in the hallway, paused. Louis cocks his head towards Harry, away from where he’d been idling studying one of Harry’s paintings. He thinks it’s a Rothko, that one.

“’S’wrong?” Louis asks, softly, stepping closer, placing a slight hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry lets himself relax into it, just a little. 

Harry turns, with what he hopes is an apologetic expression, “I’d completely forgotten the date today,” he starts to explain, and Louis’ head tilts to the side, slightly, confused. Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I’d forgotten that I was expecting–”

And then, in perfect Niall fashion, Harry is interrupted. The gate bell rings loud and abrasive in the still din of the house. 

“–company,” Harry finishes. He steps a little closer to Louis, voice low. Niall can wait. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, like, spring a gathering on you,” he tries for a nervous laugh, smiling regretfully. Louis doesn’t seem too bothered for their interruption, though. 

He smiles softly across at Harry, eyelids a little heavy, but apart from that, perfectly content, apparently. Harry tamps down the twist of disappointment low in his gut. You’re being stupid, he tells himself. Again. “That’s fine, Haz, s’no worries. Who’s coming over?”

Harry lists off the few mates he’d invited round, and Louis seems happy to stay and join. Harry’s a little more grateful for that than he’s really care to admit. 

With a final nod, Harry crosses the threshold to ring the buzzer, waiting for a moment before opening the front door, the brittle chill hitting him immediately. He shivers, bouncing up and down and little as he watches Niall park his car, wishing he’d maybe hurry the fuck up.

And then, he feels something soft, and warm, deliciously warm, wrap softly around his shoulders, the sensation heavenly. He glances back, wordless, watches as Louis finishes placing the blanket they’d shared earlier around him, meticulously making sure it’s piled up enough that it won’t fall off. It’s… incredibly tender, the way he does it. Something settles, snugly, right between Harry’s ribcage, warm and bright, at the way Louis just… just looks after Harry, still, after all this time. 

Niall gets to the door before Harry has the chance to thank him.

“Haz!” he calls, deep voice booming throughout the house, probably waking Pippa up in the process. 

“Hello, Niall,” Harry laughs, pulling him into a hug, and shutting the damn door, finally. Niall gives him a tight squeeze, and before Harry can say anything else, he’s already off.

“How’ve you been, you cheeky fucker! Feel like it’s been ages, ‘v got so much to tell ye, I–” Niall cuts himself off, as he seems to spot something over Harry’s shoulder. “Oh,” his tone has changed, from excited to positively delighted, “hello there, Louis! And how’re you doing on this fine evening? Fancy seeing you here, eh?”

Niall is grinning like a bloody Cheshire cat. Harry doesn’t really blame him, though. Louis can have that effect on people.

Harry hears Louis chuckle behind him, and he steps around Harry to stand next to him, leaning in to give Niall a hug, too. “I’m great, thanks, Niall,” he tells him, sounding it. “How’re you, mate? Everything with Zayn going alright?” 

Niall’s eyes flicker for a second, and his lips twitch, ever so slightly. “Fine, thank you,” he says through pursed lips, not wanting to give too much away, Harry’s assuming. As far as Harry knows, they’re tentatively trying again, and Niall doesn’t want to jinx it, or something. Getting information about it has sort of been like trying to get blood out of stone, if Harry’s honest.

“Good,” Louis grins, clapping his hands once. “Zayn thinks so, too.”

Niall’s eyes widen, and his smile grows. “He does?” he asks, eagerly, before Harry thinks he literally sees Niall reign himself in. “Uh, I mean,” he lowers his tone, some attempt at nonchalance, “that’s cool. I guess.”

Harry and Louis both snort. Niall might be a little bit more pathetic that Harry, and that’s saying something. At least Niall’s in an actual relationship, though. So perhaps it’s warranted. Not that Harry could even be in a relationship, either. Too much of a distraction. Anyway. 

“I reckon the others’ll be here, soon,” he declares, then, all thoughts of boyfriends, or lack thereof, out of his mind. “Niall, can I get you a drink?”

Niall looks at him like he’s suddenly grown three heads, and then leads his own way into the kitchen, muttering to himself about Harry never learning, or something.

Harry starts to follow, before looking back, and sees Louis sort of hovering by the door.

“Coming, Lou?” Harry asks, hiking the blanket off where it’s slipped a little off one of his shoulders. He’s not taking it off. 

Louis looks up at him from where he seemed to be in some sort of daze. At first, he looks a little unsure, biting his lip the way he does when he’s nervous. Harry waits quietly.

And then he nods, small smile materialising, and Harry feels the tension ease in his shoulders, relieved, as Louis wordlessly follows him through the doorway.

–

“Oh!” Nick practically bellows, as he takes his seat on the sofa, currently occupied by Harry, Louis, Niall, and now Anna, plus a bottle of Harry’s favourite Rioja that’s being passed around a fair amount. And Harry knows what’s coming, just by the way he’s… studying Louis, like some sort of specimen, possibly even before Nick himself does. “So this is the Louis you’ve been telling us all about, then!”

Bingo. 

“Nick,” Harry moans, hiding his face slighting behind his wine glass, because apparently that’s a practical hiding place. 

All he hears in response are laughs, Louis’ included, and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. If Harry didn’t already have a pink flush on his cheeks due to the copious amount of red wine he’s been consuming, he’d definitely have one now. He grimaces, slightly, avoiding eye contact with anyone after Nick’s obvious ploy to embarrass him, but he can’t even deny it; it’s true, after all. Instead, he chooses to take another generous sip from his quickly shrinking glass of wine. 

“Wait!” Anna suddenly pipes up, and, yep, the wine’s definitely hit her, too. Here it comes. “This is him?” she asks, excitedly at Harry, who gives her a half nod, much to Niall’s audible glee. Harry thinks she must turn to Louis, then, who Harry doesn’t even want to think about how he’s taking this. God, he’s an embarrassment, and he hates his friends. “You’re that insane photographer, right? I’ve heard all about you,” she tells him. Just fabulous. “You got that award, right? Recently? Congrats, mate. Sick work you’re doing.”

Well. That wasn’t too bad, Harry supposes. 

“Oh, uh, thank you, thanks a lot,” Louis murmurs, almost… shy. It’s sweet. Why is everything Louis does sweet? “You work on the radio with Nick, right?”

He peeks over his glass, needing to asses the damage while the conversation has moved on to something else. He takes in his friends one by one, noting their expressions. 

Nick looks semi-maniacal, absolutely relishing in embarrassing Harry, no doubt. Niall’s watching Harry with this sort of permanently amused expression he always wears when they’re in a situation like this, so that’s sort of expected, really. Anna looks, in all fairness to her, actively engaged in conversation with Louis, features all bright and animated. And Louis, well. 

There’s still traces of a blush to his high cheekbones, and smooth neck, even the tips of his ears are a little pink, too. He’s talking softly with Anna, but he looks away, just for a second, almost instantly finding Harry’s gaze. And then he winks, slight smirk to his lips, so quick Harry could have imagined it, before smoothly slotting back into conversation with Anna, seamlessly.

Harry sighs, quietly, to himself. 

“...Yeah, I do actually, um, have plans for opening one, maybe next year I’ll finally get it all sorted. I’ve got a space, already, and everything. Just needs some doing up, and a bit of tlc, I suppose.” 

Harry perks up at Louis’ voice, talking about… what?

“What’s this, Lou?” he asks, totally innocently, and completely ignores Nick mouthing Lou out of Louis’ eye line, hand clutched to his heart and a ridiculously dreamy expression on his face. Completely ignores it. 

Louis looks at him, expression a little hard to read. “A studio that I’m opening.”

Oh. Oh. Harry didn’t– didn’t realise. Harry had known Louis had wanted to open a studio himself, he’d told him as much. Said it’d been a dream of his, even. He hadn’t known that Louis had actually pretty much got halfway there, already. This is– this is huge, huge that Louis’ about to actually do it. Harry just… he hadn’t known.

He tries to hide his shock, and the way his stomach twists a little with hurt. It’s. It’s fine. 

“That’s,” Harry starts, throat a little dry. He swallows, forcing an easy smile onto his face, aware there are three other sets of eyes watching him. “That’s amazing, Louis, really, congratulations.” Why didn’t you tell me, he doesn't say. Why don’t you trust me, why can’t you fully let me back in? 

Harry notices Niall’s expression change, just a little, out of the corner of his eye, and he silently prays he doesn’t say anything, no matter how well intentioned. 

“Thanks, yeah,” Louis continues, not giving Niall a chance, thankfully. “I’m really excited about it,” he more tells the room, less Harry, which. Whatever. “Should be good, I think.” His voice has gone a little flat, now, and maybe before Harry would chalk it down to tiredness, maybe, but now… now, Harry’s almost certain it’s something else. 

“Speaking of new projects…” Niall chimes in, and, shite. “What’s the word on the Spielberg front, Harry?”

Niall’s a great bloke, and he’d obviously picked up on Harry’s uneasiness at the subject, so has attempted to change it, except he’s picked possibly the worst choice imaginable. Harry knows Louis reacts… oddly, to the mention of this potential film. He just doesn’t know why. 

“First Nolan, and now Spielberg, Harry?” Anna asks, incredulously. Harry’s a little scared to look to her right to gauge Louis’ reaction. “Bloody ‘ell, soon enough you’ll be snatching Oscars up left right and centre, I swear.”

Nick sits up, alert, all of a sudden. “Oh, yeah!” he gushes, brightly, “I remember you telling me about that a bit ago, how’s it going? Do you know yet?”

Harry breathes deep, suddenly overwhelmed by all the questions. Louis’ contribution is noticeably absent, for whatever reason. He still doesn’t look.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry nods, going for enthusiastic. “Yeah, I’m not actually sure, yet,” he tells them, keeping his eyes on Nick. “They, uh, haven’t decided yet. I, um, haven’t decided.”

He takes that moment to look over at Louis, who… who’s suddenly immensely interested in the fraying edge of his jumper sleeve, apparently. Right. Eyes locked down, arms crossed, the defensive stance that Harry knows all too well. There’s a bit of a strange silence, then, Harry pointedly staring at Louis, waiting for something. Anything. 

Nick seems to notice the oddness in the air, because he swiftly moves them on.

“So, Anna,” he turns to his friend, voice over dramatic and conspiratory, “you know these two have known each other since before young Harold was even a mere blip on the London socialite radar, isn’t that cool?”

In any other circumstance, Harry would grant Nick a laugh for his frankly poor joke. Right now he sort of just wants to disappear, because this, discussing Louis and Harry before… it’s definitely not the sort of topic to get out of dangerous territory. In fact, by the looks of Louis’ shoulders tensing a little where he sits, they’re walking face first into it. Perfect. Just perfect.

“Really?” Anna asks, genuinely surprised, looking between the two of them for an answer. Harry it is then.

“Uh, yeah, we have,” Harry admits, like it’s some kind of secret. Well, to Louis it seems like it sort of it. “Since we were kids, actually.” Right, he’s answered her question, now. Harry hopes that’s the end of that.

“No way!” she replies, positively stunned. Harry nods sagely, with a close lipped smile. Right, Niall, now’s the time to start talking about your new favourite dish at daddy’s restaurant or something, off you go.

“Yeah!” Nick leans forward, enthralled, and this should be good. Where’s the rest of the wine gone, Harry wonders. “I remember when I first met Harry–” fuck, no, too many embarrassing memories to think off all at once, “–about, what? Five or so years ago?” he looks over at Harry for confirmation, but doesn’t at all wait for it. This already seems to have piqued Louis’ interest; Harry can see him watching Nick out of the corner of his eye. 

“Just when he was starting out, I think I interviewed him a few times, before we became, you know, proper mates like we are so dearly now,” he winks over at Harry, and he really does think he’s God’s gift to comedy, doesn’t he, Nick. “You weren’t at radio one yet, Anna, I don’t think,” he says, before turning back to commanding the room, and shit, Harry knows where this is going, and he’s not ready for it. 

“Anyway, after the interview, when we got to chatting, etcetera, and the kid wouldn’t stop talking about this ‘Louis from home’ person, honestly.” He turns to Louis, now, who wears an expression that again, Harry can’t read. This never used to happen, before. He always used to know exactly what Louis was thinking. “He used to tell me all about you, Louis, you should’ve heard him. Was like he idolised you or summat. Almost got a bit jealous, meself, and I’d just met the kid!”

That’s… shit. Louis wasn’t supposed to know that. Wasn’t supposed to know that as soon as he left Holmes Chapel all he did was pretty much pine over Louis to anyone who would listen. Nick wasn’t supposed to– fuck. 

He can’t be pissed off at him, though. He probably should have told Nick the entire story, when he had the chance. Definitely. From Nick’s perspective, this is just a playful anecdote to two lifelong friends. Nick doesn’t know Louis and Harry stopped talking. He doesn’t know why. Only Niall does, really. He Just knows there was a Louis, before, the same one that happens to be here now. Not the ins and outs of it. 

But to Louis, it’s… revealing. Too revealing. Harry feels his skin crawl, sudden unease at the idea of Louis knowing all of this, because there was a very specific way they’d both left things, and now this, it’s just…it’s more than Harry was willing to share, just yet. 

“Is that so, then,” Louis finally says, breaking Harry from his thoughts. It’s not a question, really. His eyes are cool where they pierce Harry’s, sharp and unfamiliar. “Interesting.”

It’s plain enough to ward off any suspicion from the others around them, Harry realises, but he can tell, there’s heat behind it.

Harry holds his gaze, and says nothing. Wonders if his unease shows plainly on his face. Wonders if his acting skills are at all helping him out in this time of crisis. 

Thankfully, Niall takes that moment to announce that he should get going, early start tomorrow, apparently. Harry knows for a fact that that means probably around midday, but he allows it. He’s pretty exhausted himself.

He says his goodbyes to them all, and then a short while later, Nick announces his departure, taking Anna with him as apparently she’d agreed to drive him home. Harry’s not so sure if it was an agreement, or just Nick’s incessant persuasion, but either way, they leave together.

And then there were two.

Harry immediately feels ill at ease when it’s just the two of them together, sitting on either end of the sofa. There’s this awkwardness, now, this tension between them that he can’t ignore, especially given that Louis has barely looked at him since he last spoke to him, after Nick’s revelation. 

It’s– frankly, Harry hates it. It feels like they’re back at the start, back to those first days when Harry could barely think of more than a few words to say to Louis, like they didn’t even know each other. He doesn’t even know what to say, can’t tell how Louis’ feeling, what he might–

“So, you told your friends about me, then. Nick. Ages ago.”

Fuck. Harry knew it was coming, but that fact doesn’t make the fatal blow any less, well. Fatal. 

He looks at Louis, holds his gaze. He can’t tell whether he’s pissed off, or. Or something else. “Yeah, I did,” he replies, as casually as he can manage. “Is that alright?”

Louis looks troubled, sort of. Harry doesn’t know why. But that’s not new. “It’s…” he starts, voice low. “It’s fine, I just–”

“Sorry if it, like, embarrassed you, or something,” Harry rushes out, hoping to just be done with this. He tries a strained smile, “Nick thinks he’s a lot funnier than he is.”

Louis frowns at him. Harry lets his smile fade. 

He doesn’t say anything for a little while, then, and Harry thinks that might be it, that they might leave it there, like they have done a million over conversations like this before, until.

“Why did you never call?”

Louis’ words are clear, succinct, breaking the still of the room instantaneously, and a fragment of Harry’s heart along with it.

Harry’s speechless. Utterly, utterly speechless. He feels his eyes start to water, because of course, mouth go dry. He hadn’t expected– Harry realises how short his breaths are getting, and he takes a moment. He hadn’t expected this at all. And what can he say to that? He can’t very well tell the truth; that he’s sort of always been in love with him, for far too many years to admit, and the way they left things broke him, enough that he couldn’t bear to pick up the phone?

No. Absolutely not. Harry doesn’t think his pride could handle it, much less his heart.

He goes over Louis’ words in his head, again and again, studying them. Was there a trace of pain to them, or was that Harry’s imagination? They sounded thin around the edges, just a little, but Harry’s mind is swimming, he’d never thought Louis, of the two of them, would be the first to bring this up.

Why did you never call?

“Why didn’t you?” 

It’s the only thing Harry can think of to say. He slowly lifts his gaze, seeking Louis’ out. It doesn’t take long; he’s already looking right at him. His jaw is taut, in a way that Harry hasn’t noticed in a while. Mouth a thin line, brows knitted. The only chink in his armour is his eyes; they’re a sharp, glassy blue, revealing slightly more to Harry than he thinks Louis is entirely aware. 

It’s like the room’s gone cold, all of a sudden, because a chill runs up Harry’s spine, and Jesus, it’s thick with tension, too, he can just feel it; tangible and unavoidable. 

Louis releases a breath, features loosening, just a little. Eyes still on Harry’s. He runs a hand through his hair, frustratedly, probably, before blinking slowly, once, twice. 

“I missed you, you know.”

Harry thinks he feels a tear escape, and he lets it. He almost can’t process the words, they’re… it’s more than anything Louis’ offered him in the past few weeks, in terms of them, of their past, of Harry and Louis. Five simple words, that, in the moment, make Harry forget everything else. 

“God, Louis,” he gets out, releases, almost, and it sort of sounds like a sob. Maybe it is. “I missed you, too,” he echoes, easily, the easiest words he’s ever said. “I missed you so much.”

Louis looks at him like he wants to say something else, like he’s just about to, mouth slightly open, breath baited. But then he doesn’t, just smiles instead, and then it’s clear to Harry. He’s holding something back. Harry just doesn’t know what.

There’s a heavy moment between them, then, not the first of the evening, where they just hold each other’s gaze, Harry can feel his heart pumping deep in his chest, can hear it ringing in his ears, as he stares into Louis’ eyes, now open and bright, warm again. Smiling. 

I love you, he thinks. Because he does. 

He does love Louis. He always has. But this… them… it was never supposed to end up this way. It wasn’t– Harry can’t have a distraction, not like this, not when he’s about to go and do a massive film in bloody Africa. Possibly, anyway. Not when he doesn’t even know if Louis feels the same way.

“I’m sorry,” Harry utters, unsure fully what he’s apologising for. For not calling, mainly. Perhaps for how he feels, too. Maybe for how he doesn’t feel. All of it.

Louis stares at him, expression soft. “Me too,” he murmurs; Harry can just about catch it. 

They stay like that for a while, in comfortable silence. They need to, really. 

It’s not everything, but it’s a start, Harry’s decided. They still need to talk through… what happened, between them, and why, because none of this really makes sense, not to Harry. He wants more answers, and he’s sure Louis’ does too, but now isn’t the time. Later. 

Louis stands, slowly, after a bit, and Harry hadn’t realised how close to falling asleep he was until he’d had to get up.

“Leaving?” he asks, voice coming out in a sleep-heavy mumble already.

Louis nods, lazily. He yawns quietly as he opens his mouth to say something. Harry doesn’t know what time it is; it must be late. “‘M gonna get a cab home, I think,” he says, words sure, like he’s made his decision already.

Still, Harry tries. “You could, um,” he starts, slightly yawning himself. “You could sleep here, if you want.” His mouth turns up at the edge, “seems a bit silly to go all that way for a bed when I have about five spare ones,” he jokes, hoping the implication is clear. 

Louis fixes him with a pointed look, then, smiling. “I’d love to stay, Harry,” he tells him, as he shoves on his trainers that had lain sloppily on the rug. “With you,” he adds, eyes cast up to meet Harry’s. “I’d love to stay, in your bed, with you,” that earns a sleepy laugh out of Harry, “but I’ve got some work to do early in the city, so. Makes more sense to go back to my flat.”

Harry nods in understanding, the coil in his stomach wound a little less tight now that the mood is slightly lifted. 

They walk to the door, Louis finding his coat and scarf on the way. Harry loves that scarf.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, almost shyly, just as he’s showing Louis out the door. “And thanks for…” he continues, gesturing absently. “The chat.”

Louis just looks vaguely amused, edges of his eyes crinkling. Lovely. “You too,” he tells him, stepping out into the cold. “Thanks for having me.”

Harry smiles at him, easily, holding the door. He doesn’t feel too cold, somehow.

“Bye, then,” Louis offers, voice gravelly, a little bit rough already. Harry’s about to return the sentiment when Louis steps forward, curling his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Harry positively melts into it, grateful for the contact. He’ll never tire of the feeling of Louis in his arms. “I really did miss you, Haz,” he whispers, right into Harry’s ear, hot breath pickling Harry’s skin. There’s a sense of delicate sincerity to Louis’ voice that Harry doesn’t think he could match if he tried.

Harry pulls him impossibly closer, feels his heart practically inflate in his chest. He lets his lips meet the shell of Louis’ ear, close as he can get. “I really, really missed you too, Blue,” he tells him, hoping to convey even a fraction of the ardency Louis exhibited. He takes a breath, breathes Louis in once more, and then lets go, slowly. 

Louis gives him one last pink-lipped smile before he’s off, into the night, and Harry goes back inside.

As he makes his way up the stairs, up to bed, finally, he thinks to himself. It’s going to be alright, he decides. We’re going to be alright.

–


End file.
